The Haunting of Pier 56
by turtlegirl42
Summary: A young man forms an unlikely friendship with the broken ghost of a man who died ten years ago. But what will happen when Peter Parker gets involved? Set ten years after Spider-Man 2.
1. Pier 56

The Haunting of Pier 56

Setting my backpack down on the ground, I sat on the riverbank, gazing at the reflections the late afternoon sun cast on the surface of the water.

My friends had warned me not to come here alone. Even my mother, sensible as she was, had told me I was only looking for trouble by coming here.

If you did come here, you didn't come alone. You came with a friend or two, for protection, you know?

Because everybody knew that this place was haunted.

I had come on my own because I had no one to go with. Checking out Pier 56 was a kind of milestone; everybody did it. But I really didn't have any friends to go to Pier 56 with. So I went by myself; just after six o'clock, when everyone said the ghost showed up.

See, something had happened here ten or so years ago—what had exactly had happened, nobody knew, but there had been stories, and these stories had evolved into a bit of a legend.

This place used to be the site of some old, abandoned docks. Even ten years ago, they weren't in the greatest condition. Which is where the mad scientist comes in.

At this point, anyone who hasn't heard the story gets pretty skeptical. "A mad scientist?" they say. "Come on! That's a bunch of bull and you know it!" But it's true. And there's more.

This mad scientist wasn't your average mad scientist. Everybody says that he had four extra mechanical arms that were connected to his spine; making him not only scary, but pretty darn powerful. Creepy, huh? Well, anyway, this is where Spider-man comes in; because the police couldn't take on this guy alone, Spider-man had to handle it. Spider-man and the evil mad scientist had a showdown at the piers here. Apparently, the bad guy, a genius, had built a nuclear bomb and was threatening to blow up the city with it. Spider-man saved the city by dropping the bomb in the water, but the mad scientist didn't get away and died in the ensuing explosion.

However, everybody says that this place is still haunted by his malignant and vengeful spirit. Me? I don't believe in ghosts. But a lot of people believe that this area has a certain eeriness about it; nobody comes here unless you _want_ to be scared. But like I said, I don't believe in the supernatural. It's not rational to even consider that such things are possible; because they're not.

In fact, I had been here nearly and hour and no ghost or evil spirit had showed up. I even didn't even feel a chill, like most people said they did when they came here. It was warm, sunny, and almost peaceful. The waters were calm and the sky was a majestic blue. I shook my head. Nothing haunted this place.

I picked up a few stones and began skipping them across the water.

_Splish, splish, splash!_ I was thinking about how I was going to college that year, how different it would be from the life I was living now.

_Splish, splish, splish, splash!_ I thought about where I was going; even though it was only October, I was already enrolled for the following fall in Empire State University as a biology major.

_Splish, splish, splash! _Empire State University had been where my father had gone to college. He would have been proud of me.

Dusk was beginning to set in Manhattan. _I better get home soon_, I thought.

I wrapped my jacket tightly around me. It had gotten really cold all of a sudden. I shivered. The temperature must have dropped twenty degrees in thirty seconds! This wasn't natural.

Suddenly, my shoulders felt as though they had been drenched in icy cold water. I stumbled back, startled out of my wits. What was going on here?

"Just what do you think you're doing here, young man?" a man's voice said from right behind me. I whipped around, looking around for the source of the voice.

There was no one there.

My spine tingled, and I began to sweat. I didn't say a word, but I was terrified. This had to be the ghost that everyone talked about. But it was impossible! Ghosts didn't exist. But there was no other explanation for this phenomenon. I was not insane; I _had_ heard that voice.

It was still freezing cold. I looked around once more, but again saw nothing. Then, I was abruptly pushed by unseen hands, again experiencing the strange icy, soaking sensation that I had felt before. I heard that voice again; the angry, vengeful voice tinged with grief and misery. "Leave," it demanded. "Leave this place now."

There was no doubt that I _was_ leaving—I certainly was not going to be frightened out of my wits any longer. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and began to walk away.

But then I took a moment to think about what was going on here. I knew the stories; I had known what was probably going to happen if I came here. The ghost was only protecting its territory. And besides, the voice had sounded miserable—even if the living person had been evil, he had turned malevolent for a reason. The ghost had lost something dear to him.

I knew what that felt like, and the least I owed the spirit was an apology. "I'm sorry for disturbing you, sir," I said loudly. "I won't come here again." Turning my back, I began to walk the way I had come.

"Wait! Please wait," the voice said urgently. I stopped, glancing around me but still not seeing anything.

"No, no, no," the voice said impatiently. "Behind you."

I turned around. A man stood in front of me. Well, let me stand corrected. He wasn't actually standing; he was floating several feet above the water. The man was of stocky build and quite tall. He wore a long tan trench coat and dark sunglasses. All of his features were blurred, as though someone had smeared them with a giant eraser, and he glowed a little with a blue light. But the most amazing thing about the apparition was the four metal arms that peeked out from behind him. Fascinating and intricately made, they were an incredible sight.

"Thank you," the ghost said.

"For what?" I said, a little confused.

"For respecting me. It's been too long since I have been given any respect."

The ghost, who was several feet away from me, began to float towards me, his feet gliding effortlessly on air. Despite the fact that the ghost was now being somewhat friendly, the guy, ghost or not, was still evil. I had heard the stories of his malevolence. Besides, just the experience of meeting a ghost was terrifying.

The spirit landed lightly in front of me, testing the ground with his translucent feet. He took a step towards me. I took three steps back.

"There's no need to be afraid of me," he said calmly. "I can't hurt you." He looked absentmindedly at his arms. "They can't hurt you," he said, referring to them stoically.

"So, you're the ghost of the mad scientist," I said matter-of-factly.

As soon as the words had left my lips, I regretted them. The ghost scowled, and he scoffed. "So that's what they call me now? The 'mad scientist?'" he asked angrily. "I'm not even good enough to be called Doc Ock?"

"Doc Ock?" I asked, confused.

"Short for Doctor Octopus."

I looked over the apparition and shrugged. "Suits you well enough," I said.

"Thanks," the ghost shot back angrily. He glared at me through his dark sunglasses.

"I'm sorry," I said. "What is your actual name, if you don't mind me asking?"

The ghost scoffed again. "Now you're going to ask, after insulting me? And yet…I suppose I'll tell you."

He rose a few feet into the air. "I," he declared, "am Dr. Otto Octavius."


	2. The Years Lost

The Haunting of Pier 56

Chapter Two—The Years Lost

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters from Spider-man. However, the characters of Mark Rhodes and his mother are of my own creation.

**Author's Note:** This is my first attempt at writing a fan-fiction in the first person. It's quite an experience! In case you haven't already noticed, this fan-fiction is movie-verse; taking place ten years after Spider-Man 2. Oh, and thank you to users FloatingPizza and THE DARK DESTROYER for their reviews. And now I shall continue. Read on…

_Splish, splish_, _splash!_

My deep thoughts were broken by the jarring sound of a pebble skipping across the water.

I sighed. Who was it _this _time? Probably some punk, as usual. Why was it always the rowdy teenagers who showed up here? They had no right to bother me.

I floated over to where the sound was coming from. Sure enough, there was a young man, no older than eighteen, skipping stones on the river. He was wearing what was deemed to be 'fashionable;' a graphic t-shirt and some raggedy jeans. His rather long black hair was held behind a blue baseball cap. I frowned, watching him. What did this punk think he was doing? Playing games on my grave… That disrespecting kid…

It was time to teach this impudent punk a lesson he wouldn't soon forget: Don't mess with the octopus.

Even if the octopus was dead.

I didn't expect things to happen this way.

I knew that I was going to die; it was inevitable. Either I give up my own life, or the lives of thousands, possibly millions of innocent New Yorkers. The choice was obvious; compared to all those who would die, my life was insignificant.

Of course, at that point I thought my life insignificant anyway, despite whatever my 'children' might think. I had nothing to lose; nothing to live for.

So I was quite surprised when I woke up the next morning on the riverbank, face up towards the early morning sky. For a split second, I thought that a phenomenon had occurred and I had survived that initial impact. But then I knew.

The connection was gone. The mental link I had with my creations, those metallic wonders I had made with my bare hands, no longer existed. Their voices were no longer crowding my head. My thoughts were my own, and I didn't know if I liked that.

I looked at my hands. What had happened? It took me a minute to realize that I was looking _through _them, to the ground below me. I realized that though my body was lying at the bottom of the river, my soul was still here. For some unknown reason, I had remained here; at the place of my death, the sight of my cataclysmic end.

In the unknown amount of time since my death, I have shown myself to no one. Well, save one person who thought he was going to rape a girl right in front of me. Dead or not, I wasn't going to allow that to happen.

Don't get me wrong. I'm no savior. Hell, I couldn't even save myself when it came down to it. But I couldn't just sit there and watch. I had done that for far too long, not doing anything.

I glided towards the young man, moving around him, getting a good look at him. He seemed deep in thought. But he wouldn't be for long. He had trespassed upon my home, and he would pay for that.

Making my hands partially solid, I grasped the boy's shoulders. "And just what do you think you're doing here, young man?" I whispered into his ear.

The kid jumped back a few feet. I had startled him quite badly. He frantically looked around for the source of my voice, of course finding none since I had chose for him not to see me.

I was surprised how calm and composed this kid was. Everyone else had either run away screaming, or was acting like they were in some low-budget horror film. 'Is anybody there?' 'Who are you?' 'What do you want?' How lame. But this young man wasn't doing any of that. I had to give him a little credit. Even so…

I touched the boy again, pushing him forcibly. "Leave," I snarled. "Leave this place now." No one living was going to come here and irritate me without me saying something about it.

The kid got the hint. He picked up his backpack and looked like he was ready to leave. Good riddens. I turned and began to glide away. Perhaps now I could return to my thoughts and be left in peace.

"I'm sorry for disturbing you, sir," I heard the kid say loudly. "I won't come here again."

I stopped. I… I… I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Since my death, many had come to this place. But none of them had given me any respect to speak of. Even before my death, I hadn't been viewed very highly; perhaps I had even been viewed as less than human.

But this boy, this young man, had actually…actually given me respect. He had called me _sir_… and actually apologized.

I was moved by the young man's actions. "Wait! Please wait," I urged, for the boy was quickly walking away. I turned around and let go, revealing my true form to the young man.

But the kid had his back to me, and was looking around dumbfounded, obviously confused as to what, exactly, was going on.

"No, no, no," I said, a little annoyed. "Behind you."

The young man turned around, several emotions evident on his face as he saw me, catching a mere glimpse of the man I had once been.

"Thank you," I said simply.

"For what?" the young man replied nervously.

"For respecting me. It's been too long since I have been given any respect."

Realizing I was quite a distance from the boy, I lowered myself and glided towards him. I landed on the ground and tested it with one of my feet to make sure it wouldn't sink. Satisfied, I took a step towards the courteous young man.

He backed away, terrified. He was deathly afraid of me.

"There's no need to be afraid," I assured him calmly. "I can't hurt you."

The boy didn't seem comforted by my words, and I quickly realized why. My arms, of course. Though I no longer shared my thoughts with them, they were still there. Even in death they were a part of me. "They can't hurt you," I said, referring to them.

The kid relaxed a bit and allowed me to come closer. "So you're the ghost of the mad scientist," he stated casually.

I narrowed my eyes beneath my ectoplasmic sunglasses. So I was just the nameless 'mad scientist' now? Oh, I'm sure I would forever live in infamy as 'the mad scientist who tried to blow up Manhattan.' Wonderful. How quaint.

"So that's what they call me now?" I asked angrily. "The 'mad scientist'? I'm not even good enough to be called Doc Ock?"

"Doc Ock?" the kid asked, confused.

"Short for Doctor Octopus."

The kid looked me up and down, surveying me. He shrugged. "Suits you well enough."

"Thanks," I shot back sarcastically. Doctor Octopus…well, it _was_ a suitable name. But sometimes I liked to be regarded as more than a maniacal monster.

The kid didn't reply for a moment, obviously realizing he had insulted me. Finally, he said, "I'm sorry. What's your real name, if you don't mind me asking?"

I scoffed. "Now you're going to ask, after insulting me? And yet…I suppose I'll tell you. I," I declared, "am Dr. Otto Octavius."

The young man smiled a little. "Mark Rhodes," he replied jovially. He held out a hand for me to shake.

I reluctantly took his hand. At first, my hand went through his. Then I attained control and made my hand solid, grasping the living boy's fingers.

I felt the boy's pulse; felt his warmth, felt the sheer _life_ flowing through him…

"Uh, you can let go now." Mark's lips were turning blue, and his teeth were chattering.

"Sorry," I said, pulling back my hand. The color immediately began to return to his cheeks.

Mark shivered. "Please don't do that again," he said. "You're freezing!"

"Of course I'm freezing," I replied. "I'm dead."

The young man had nothing to say to that.

An awkward silence descended between us then; the dead man and the living boy. I decided to break that silence by asking a question, something I had been wondering for a long time.

"How long has it been?"

The kid looked at me quizzically, not understanding at first what I was talking about. After a moment though, his face lit up with realization. "Since your death? Oh, geez, I dunno. Give or take ten years, maybe?"

"Ten years…" I muttered. Ten years was such a long time, but to me it seemed like hardly any time had passed. Time meant little to the dead; I had all the time I could ever need or want. The passing of the days and the seasons meant nothing to me.

But to those who are living, ten years is a long time. This reminded me of something else I had been wondering about…

"Is Spider-Man still around?" I asked.

"Yeah, of course. There'll always be Spider-Man." He shot me a suspicious look. "Why?"

I shot him an equally suspicious glare. "I was just wondering." I wasn't looking for revenge. By now, Parker would have forgotten me for sure. But it would be interesting to see him again…

"If we're going to talk," I said, changing the subject, "we don't have to stand here." I glided over to the edge of the river, and Mark followed suit.

"So, Doctor, I—"

"Call me Otto, please."

The boy gave me a funny look. "Really? Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes, really." I was through with formalities. The boy had given me enough respect; I really didn't deserve any more than what he had already given me. Besides, I was comfortable enough to have him call me by his first name.

"Well, anyway, I was wondering…"

"Yes?"

"Since you're a ghost, can you possess people? If you could, that would be really awesome. I mean, I wish _I_ could possess people, sometimes."

"What a typical question to ask. I honestly don't know." I flashed him a wry grin. "Would you like me to find out?"

"Uh, no. No, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? I certainly could try."

"Really, it's okay. I was just asking."

"I thought so." I changed the subject again. "Are you still in high school, Mark?"

"Yeah, senior year. It's okay, I guess."

"Going to college next fall?"

"Yup. Empire State University. It's where my dad went."

"That's not a bad school. What are you planning on going into?"

Mark shrugged. "Biology; specifically genetics. I'm planning on being a geneticist."

Genetics…that wasn't my field, but Mark was obviously a science nerd. I could relate.

"You're going to be a biologist? A noble calling, I should say."

To my surprise, he shot me a nasty look. "From the stories I've heard about you, you were a physicist, not a biologist. And a maniac to boot."

I was about to bite back an angry retort when the boy's cell phone rang.

"Ohhhhhhhoohhhh….caught in a bad romance…ohhhhhhhhohhhh…caught in a bad romance…"

The boy gave me a slightly embarrassed look as he fished the phone out of his pocket and answered it.

"Hello? Oh, hi, Mom. How are you? I'm good. I'm still at the haunted pier. No, Mom, it's not really haunted. No ghosts here," he said, giving me a sideways glance. "It's pretty peaceful, really. You'd be surprised." He paused for nearly a minute. "Yes, Mom, I'll be home by curfew, yes, I'll be walking home, and no, I won't talk to or take rides from strangers. See you in a couple hours, Mom. I love you, too. 'Bye."

He pushed a button and put the cell phone back in his pocket.

"Good god, you should change your ringtone. It's utterly atrocious."

The boy laughed. "That's what passes for music these days. It's very popular, actually."

"Obviously, or you wouldn't have such a dreadful song as your ringtone."

The kid rolled his eyes and shuffled his feet. "Uh, I have to be home by 10, so…"

"What time is it now?" As much as I hated to admit it, I didn't want the boy to leave. The earlier argument seemed to have been forgotten.

"Seven o'clock."

"Well, you've got plenty of time then, don't you? Please stay and chat a little longer."

Mark stayed and talked with me until the few stars that weren't blotted out by light pollution were dotting the sky.

"Uh, I really do have to go now, so… Would you like me to come around here again sometime?"

"Of course. You will always be welcome here now, Mark Rhodes."

The young man turned and waved before walking away.

I watched him leave, reflecting on my decision to talk to the young man. Had it been unwise to do something so irrational?

I assured myself that no harm would come of it. He would tell no one of our meeting, I knew.

Like always, I returned to watching over the place of my death, thinking, contemplating, and now… planning.


	3. Haunted

The Haunting of Pier 56

Chapter Three—Haunted

**Five Months Later**

I sat at the desk in my bedroom, trying hard to make sense of the physics homework in front of me. I re-read the problem, making sure I had copied it down right.

"If a photon has 3.26x10 to the -19 joules of energy, then calculate the length of the photon. Show all of your work."

I crossed out what I thought was the wrong answer for the third time. This was getting ridiculous. I was doing _something _wrong, but I didn't know what it was.

I threw my pencil down on the desk. I really needed to go for a walk and get some fresh air before I attempted to tackle this homework again.

After telling my mom I was going for a quick walk (she told me not to wander too far), I left the apartment and walked down the sidewalks of downtown Manhattan. Though the sidewalks and streets were busy as always, nothing eventful really happened except I calmed down a little and relaxed. Walking, especially with music in my ears, always manages to give me some kind of inner peace that nothing else does.

When I got home a little over an hour later, I was ready to tackle physics (despite my avidness for biology, I sucked at physics and earth science). Mom told me dinner would be ready in a couple of hours and advised me to get my homework done. I told her I would get my homework as done as I could get it. I walked up the stairs to my room and opened the door a …

My cat, Tracy, peeled out of my bedroom with a high-pitched screech of a meow. I tried to catch her, but she was too fast for me; actually clawing me as she tore down the stairs. _What was that all about?_ I thought. Tracy never acted like that. I shuddered as I realized with a terrible certainty that someone, or something, must be in my room. I cautiously pushed the door open and crept inside, ever wary for an intruder.

Even before I saw him, I knew instantly what had spooked my cat. There was an unnatural, icy chill in the air. The radio had been turned on, tuned to some _classical_ music station. And sitting at my desk reading my physics textbook was none other than the ghost of Dr. Otto Octavius.

Now, before you get confused, let me tell you exactly what happened. I _know_ that I had told the ghost I would visit him again, but I had kept making excuses and putting it off until finally, I decided just to forget about the whole thing. You can't blame me, can you? I mean, I could barely deal with what I had going on in my life. Hanging out with the ghost of a criminal mastermind was hardly going to make things any better.

So… there he was, reading my physics book… Having heard me walk in, the ghost looked up from my textbook. "Hello, Mark," he said calmly, as if finding a ghost hanging out in my bedroom was completely normal and happened to me all the time.

I slunk my shoulders and rolled my eyes. This was the _last_ thing I needed…

Dr. Octavius closed the book shut with a snap. "It's a good thing you opened the door just now. Your cat was ready to tear through the walls." He shook his head. "What a creature."

I scowled. "Don't put down my cat. Just because _you_ don't like them…"

"I never said I didn't like them."

I crossed my arms. "What do you want, exactly? I know you invaded my room for a reason."

"Well, actually, I came here to ask for a favor. But…" he motioned to the papers now scattered on my desk. "I noticed that you're obviously struggling with your homework. Perhaps I could help you with that?"

This was really weird. First the ghost breaks into my house, insults my cat, and now he's offering to help me with physics homework. This whole scene was getting stranger and stranger as the minutes passed on.

"Wait a second," I said. "You _do _know how to do this sort of thing, don't you?" I walked over to my desk and started organizing the papers that Dr. Octavius had strewn all over.

The ghost shot me a knowing look. "You forget," he said, "that I was a nuclear physicist. To someone like me, who devoted my whole life to science, this," he motioned to the papers, "is mere child's play."

"Easy for you to say," I grumbled as I sat down and got out my things.

"Let me see that pencil," the ghost said, ing it out of my grasp with one of those eerie metallic arms. He looked over my shoulder at my paper. "What a mess we have here," he scolded lightly. "You're going about this all wrong. You have to substitute here and here, not there. And you have to add the exponent, not divide by it. Like this…"

Over an hour had passed before I set my pencil down.

"Is that the last problem?" the ghost asked.

I nodded. "Uh-huh," I said happily, getting my things together and putting them away.

"I hope you actually learned something from that."

I smiled. "Yeah, I did. You're a real good teacher."

"And you are an avid student," the ghost replied solemnly. Though he still wasn't smiling, I could tell he had enjoyed the tutoring session. "Who is your physics teacher?"

I sighed. He just _had _to ask that… "Mr. Marlin," I said. "Though I wish I had Mr. Parker. He's a way better teacher. Everyone says he's the best in the school."

The ghost nodded. Then he did a double take. "Did you say 'Parker'?" he asked in disbelief.

"Yeah. Mr. Parker. He's one of the science teachers at my school."

The ghost shook his head in incredulity. "Unbelievable. And I was just about to ask you to help me find him. How ironic is that?"

I looked at him distrustfully. "You knew Mr. Parker?"

Dr. Octavius nodded again. "If he is the Parker you're speaking of, yes," he said forlornly. "I wronged him in a bad way." He stepped closer to me. "What is Mr. Parker's first name?" he asked.

I turned away from him. "How do you expect me to know?" I asked. "He's not _my_ teacher."

"I would appreciate it if you could find out for me," the ghost said. "It's about time we had a talk, Peter Parker and I."

I shrugged. Hey, why not? It wasn't like I had anything to lose, really. "Sure, I'd love to help you," I said, and the spirit's face brightened visibly. "But I was wondering; what kind of things did you _do_ to Peter Parker, anyway?"

The ghost's face clouded over. "I'd rather not discuss that right now, Mark," he said darkly. "I'm not proud of my past."

"Of course you're not!" I burst out loudly. I had had quite enough of this ghost pretending he was all good and all that. He had done so many bad things, so many evil things, that it wasn't even funny. "I mean, all the stories I've heard, it's a wonder you weren't killed by a raging mob!" Otto opened his mouth to say something, but I just kept talking. "You killed all sorts of people, and you even built a nuclear ! Now if that doesn't define 'evil', I don't know what does."

"Is that the story everyone says now?" Dr. Octavius said, his eyes flashing. "That not only was I a 'mad scientist,' but that I built a nuclear , too? That is absolutely _ridiculous_." His ghostly mechanical arms were swaying behind him in agitation, and his face was contorted with rage.

"So you didn't build a nuclear ?" I asked. That _was _what everyone had said, and besides, it made for a very interesting ghost story.

"No, I did_ not _build a nuclear ," he said indignantly. He bowed his head. "I… I hurt a lot of people," he said softly. "But I never would have done _anything_ like that. You've got the story all wrong," he said.

"Well, what were you working on then, Otto?" I asked.

"A nuclear reactor," he told me. "If successful, it would have created a new power source, helping the world and creating clean energy." He hung his head. "But it failed. _I_ failed." He looked at me in the eyes then, and I saw untold pain, anguish, agony, misery… All the failures and humiliations that a person should never have to go through… He had seen it all. I also saw eternal loneliness in those eyes. To tell the truth, I felt kind of sorry for him. The ghost must have seen the look on my face, because he glared at me and snarled, "I don't need pity from you."

He turned away from me then, gliding slowly over to my window. He placed his elbows on the windowsill and gazed wistfully out of the panes.

"I don't know why I'm even telling you any of this," he said, averting my gaze. "You're just a boy, a mere boy. Maybe it's because…" He sighed softly. "I haven't spoken to anyone in over ten years. And even then, even before…I…"

The ghost put his head in his hands. "I don't know. I don't know what's going on." His voice ed, and I could tell he was on the verge of hysterics. "I'm . I should be burning in hell right now, but…" He threw up his hands. "WHY?" he shouted, more to himself than me. The ghostly mechanical arms responded to his agitation, waving around him wildly.

I started to walk towards Otto, hoping to comfort him, but I was stopped by an ethereal mechanical arm snapping in my face. It made a very eerie hissing sound.

"Get away from me," he snarled. "You're only a boy. You couldn't possibly understand what I'm going through."

"Yeah, well, you know what? I—" I was stopped from saying something very to Doctor Octavius by a loud knocking on my door. _Nok, Nok, Nok!_

"Mark, dear! Dinner is ready!" my mother called cheerfully through the door.

"Be down in a minute, Mom!" I called distractedly. I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard her footsteps going down the stairs.

I looked at the ghost, who was still standing there, now calmed down a little. "I gotta go now, and I think you've overstayed your welcome, so…"

He nodded solemnly. "Just…just find out about Parker for me. Please," he said pleadingly. That being said, the ghost of Doctor Otto Octavius winked out of existence. I knew he was truly gone because the temperature began to rise again.

I sighed and started going down the stairs. My life was getting ever stranger, and I had a feeling that this would only be the beginning...

Thanks for reading, and please review!


	4. Small World

The Haunting of Pier 56 

Chapter Four—Small World

**Author's Note**: Yet another chapter of this story! When I initially started out, I didn't think it was going to be all too long, but it's turning out to be longer than I expected. I am really having fun writing this; playing with the characters of the Spider-Man movie-verse and developing my own unique character. It's quite enjoyable, and I'm hoping you're enjoying reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it. Read on…!

The next day, he was waiting for me on the front steps of my apartment building. It was a sunny day, so you could practically see right through the ghost. His hands were in his pockets, and for some reason, his mechanical arms (which he always had out) were hidden beneath his ethereal coat. Otherwise, he looked the same as always, his appearance forever frozen in time.

I was having a good day, and I wasn't going to let this ghost ruin it. So I decided to mess around a little bit with him. I mean, come on. If he was going to harass me all of the time, I might as well have some fun with the guy.

He was staring at the ground as I approached, and he looked up when he heard me coming.

"Hey, where are your arms, Doctor Octopus?" I said jokingly. Too late I forgot how touchy the ghost could be.

His arms came out from behind him menacingly. They snapped in my face, and for a second I thought he was going to attack me with them. Then, thankfully, they pulled back, and just stood still behind him, as if warning me not to joke around like that.

"Don't _ever_ call me that again, Mark. _Ever_. Do you understand?" he growled, every syllable an epitome of hatred and anger.

"Yeah. Can I call you Doc Ock, instead?" I said, knowing I was just going to anger him more.

He gave me a death glare. "It would be wise not to mess with me today, _Mr. Rhodes_," he snarled. "I have not had a good day."

"Well, imagine that!" I said. I knew that I was pushing Dr. Octavius to the limit, beleaguering him like this, but I just couldn't help it.

I sat down on the steps, casually throwing my books down. "I didn't know a ghost could _have_ a bad day. Tell me _all_ about it."

To my surprise, he didn't lose it or attack me. Instead, he looked me in the eye and said, with disappointment and sorrow in his voice, "I don't know why you find it amusing to torture me, Mark, but I would appreciate it if you would stop. I don't need you reminding me what a bad person I was. I already know that."

The look on his face and the tone of his voice made me feel extremely guilty. Sure, the ghost was 'haunting' me, but I didn't need to treat him this way. I felt humiliated for bashing him, even if I was just trying to be clever.

I hung my head. "I'm sorry," I said ashamedly. "I was just joking around."

"It _wasn't _funny, and you know it."

"I know it wasn't. You don't deserve any more ridicule or hatred."

"Some people would disagree with you, Mark," he replied, averting my gaze.

I said nothing. I personally didn't believe that he was all that evil. I still hadn't heard the whole story of what had happened ten years ago (and it wasn't like I was going to ask anyone, least of all Doctor Octavius himself), but I now knew he regretted everything he had done then. In fact, I felt that the guilt and regret of what had happened was eating at him, tearing him up inside. But I didn't say any of this to Otto.

Finally, the ghost cleared his throat to break the awkward silence that had descended between us. "Ahem. Back to the matter at hand. Did you find out about Parker?"

I nodded enthusiastically. I had asked my friends Kyle and Jacob, who took physics with Mr. Parker, about it. "You were right. Mr. Parker's first name is Peter. He's obviously the guy you're looking for."

He nodded, unfazed. He had clearly been confident that he was right and therefore had been expecting my answer. He ruffled through the pockets of his trenchcoat, finally bringing out a rather solid-looking white envelope. The ghost held it out to me. "Here, take this," he said.

I turned the envelope over in my hands. It was a uniform envelope; with the name "Peter Parker" scrawled on the front in what I assumed was Doctor Octavius's handwriting.

I rolled my eyes. "I think I know what you want me to do with this," I said.

Otto nodded solemnly. "Yes, you're smart, Mark, I'll give you that." He paused. "I want you to give that to Peter Parker for me as soon as you can."

"You do realize that Mr. Parker _probably_ won't believe me, don't you? I mean—"

"Of course I realize that," the ghost snapped angrily. "Just give it to him."

"Sure thing! I… wait, you wrote this?" I asked, confused.

He shrugged. "I've recently discovered I can interact with solid objects if I concentrate hard enough. It's quite useful."

Doctor Octavius glanced around. "I believe I will take my leave now, as you probably look as though you are talking to yourself. I will see you soon, Mark."

Without a proper good-bye, the ghost vanished. I shook my head. I _hated_ when he did that.

I went up to the apartment I shared with my mother and unlocked the door. Setting my bag down, I began to wonder something. If Otto had written the letter, where had he gotten the materials to do so?

Suddenly, with certainty, I understood. I went into my room, quickly taking inventory.

Sure enough, several of my notebooks, a package of pens and pencils, a package of envelopes, and my clipboard were missing.

Damn that ghost. Couldn't he have just _asked_?

"Mr. Parker! Mr. Parker!" I called, running after the said science teacher in the crowded hallway. I finally reached him, out of breath from dashing down the corridor.

Mr. Parker turned around and looked at me quizzically. "Mark Rhodes," he said in bewilderment. "I've heard about you. What can I do for you, young man?"

I fished the envelope out of my pocket and gave it to him. "I was told to give this to you."

Mr. Parker accepted it and thanked me. I made my way to my next class…

"Mark Rhodes, please report to the Main Office. Mark Rhodes, please report to the Main Office."

I sighed and collected my things. I knew what this was about…

Sure enough, I was called to Mr. Parker's classroom from the Main Office. When I walked into the room, it was empty save Mr. Parker sitting at his desk. "Come in, Mr. Rhodes," he said, looking up from some work.

I waited a few minutes while Mr. Parker graded someone's test. Then he shuffled his papers and stood up. "Mr. Rhodes," he said. "I believe you know what this is all about." He picked up the envelope that Otto had given me off of the desk. "I want you to tell me the truth, Mr. Rhodes," he said sternly. "Did you write this letter?"

"No sir."

Mr. Parker slammed the letter on the desk. "Otto Octavius is dead. He has been dead for _ten years_." He looked at me. "Who gave this to you, Mr. Rhodes?"

I shifted in my seat nervously. "I don't think you would believe me if I told you, sir."

Mr. Parker narrowed his eyes. "Try me, Mr. Rhodes."

I didn't say anything.

"Is Dr. Otto Octavius alive, Mr. Rhodes? Tell me that, at least."

I shook my head. "No, sir."

"I thought so." Mr. Parker sat back down at his desk and glared at me with steely eyes. "I don't know why you wrote this letter and lied to me about it, Mr. Rhodes, but pull some 'prank' like this again, and I assure you, disciplinary action _will _be taken." He started grading some tests. "You may return to class now, Mr. Rhodes," he said, without looking up from his task.

"Yes, sir." I returned to class more than a little depressed. I knew that that was going to happen, but I hadn't had the heart to tell Otto. I mean, I couldn't just tell Mr. Parker, 'Oh, hey, it actually _was_ Otto Octavius that wrote you that letter, but he's dead.' He just wouldn't believe me, and I knew it.

And now I had to relay the disappointment to the ghost, which I _really_ wasn't looking forward to.

Just like I knew he would, the ghost was waiting for me on the front steps when I came home. Something was different than yesterday, though. He was reading a newspaper, his actual hands holding the edges of it while his mechanical arms acted as sentries.

As I walked up the steps, he folded up the paper and tossed it to me. "Thank you for letting me borrow your newspaper," he said, by way of a greeting.

"Yeah, don't even ask first," I muttered, putting the paper in the crook of my arm.

"Well, I _do_ have to keep up with the times, you know," he said defensively. He pointed to the paper. "Spider-Man still makes headlines, I see. And the Yankees still play good baseball." He sighed. "Not much has changed in Manhattan. Ten years…I thought _something _of importance would have happened."

"I suppose, if that's the way you see it, Otto," I replied, sitting down. I really didn't want to set him off today.

"Well, what did Parker have to say?" he asked, joining me on the front steps.

"Actually…" I _really_ didn't want to tell him this… "He was . He thought you were alive."

To my surprise, the ghost tipped his head back and _laughed_. It was a bitter, cold laugh, devoid of any humor or happiness. It saddened me to hear it.

"Trust me, if I was alive, hunting down Peter Parker would be the last thing I would do." He laughed again. "I can't believe he thought I was alive. Parker is a fool, and absolute fool. _If_ he would remember correctly, he left me to my fate. He knew I couldn't possibly have survived that."

"'Left you to your fate?' What do you mean by that?"

"Never mind," he snapped. "What happened next?"

"Mr. Parker accused me of writing it and said if it happened again I would be in serious trouble."

The ghost of Otto Octavius sighed. "I suppose you were right in trying to dissuade me, Mark. Pursuing Peter Parker is a lost cause."

I hastily changed the subject, not wanting Otto to get too depressed.

Despite me trying to be nice to him, the ghost was still in his depressed, moody funk by the time he told me he had to leave. He turned to walk away, but then he stopped. He turned around, walking towards me.

"I couldn't help but wonder, Mark…"

"What? What is it?" I asked.

He pointed to my chest. "Why do you wear that necklace? I've never seen you without it."

I took a hand and pulled the long chain out from under my shirt. The chain and the dog tags attached to them had been my father's. I never took it off.

"It was my father's," I said softly.

"May I see?"

Reluctantly, I carefully took off the chain and gently gave it to the ghost. With a translucent hand, he took it with the same utmost care I gave it. He glanced at the dog chain, reading the name. His eyes widened with recognition, and he slowly handed the chain back to me, where I put it back on, where it belonged.

"Your father is Jonathan Rhodes?" the ghost asked in disbelief.

"Yeah. He was a doctor in the Marine Corps."

Otto shook his head. "I knew your father."

"WHAT? From where?"

"From college. We were roommates for some time at Empire State University."

"Whoah," I breathed, shocked beyond recognition. "Small world."

**Author's Note:** How's _that _for an end to this chapter? Don't forget to review, please!


	5. Musings of a Dead Man

The Haunting of Pier 56

Chapter 5—Musings of a Dead Man

**Author's Note: **Thank you all for your continued support of this story. Just a fair warning that I'm switching perspectives again. At one point, I may even have a chapter from Peter Parker's point of view! But that will be later on in the story. Also note that flashbacks will be in _italics._ Anyway, read on…!

"When you're at the end of the road

And you lost all sense of control

And your thoughts have taken their toll

When your mind breaks the spirit of your soul

Your faith walks on broken glass

And the hangover doesn't pass

Nothing's ever built to last

You're in ruins."

~From "21 Guns" by Green Day

I hate this.

I really, really hate this.

I hate having to rely on people. For most of my life, I had to fend for myself; take care of myself. Especially after Rosie died…

But I am certainly not getting into that. Not now; not ever, if I have something to say about it. I can't think about her. I just can't.

Now I'm relying on a boy to take care of things for me; to contact the people from my life so that maybe, perhaps, I may be able to move on.

I hate it.

But the thing I hate the most about being dead (besides having to rely on others) is the fact that I can't feel _anything_. Nothing, nada. What I wouldn't give just to feel the warmth of a sunny day, or even a torrential downpour of rain on my head... I can touch solid objects, but I don't really feel them like a living person would.

I don't even have the whispers of my creations in my head. They were forever silenced when I died. I still… I still almost _miss_ them, even after ten years of silence.

I have nothing. I feel nothing.

And every day, I ask myself that question, that one little word that meant so much: Why?

For the life of me (pardon the bad pun), I could never figure it out. Of course, I had my theories, but I could never come up with a concrete answer, and this frustrated me.

All that I desire is peace; I know I will pay for what I did. What kind of cruel god would do this? This eternal loneliness is more torture to me than the fieriest pits of hell.

Perhaps there is no God.

Rosie was a Christian, of course; much to my chagrin, she would often drag me to church and—

Dammit. Rosie… I can only barely remember what she looks like anymore.

I would like to think that she is at peace and singing hymns in a Christian heaven, but that is a place I will never reach.

I will never see her again.

Dammit, she was the only one that even _cared _about me… I don't know what she would think if she saw me now, a fractured soul. She would probably be ashamed of me. She probably wouldn't even want to speak to me. I can't…I can't think about this anymore…

But now I have the boy. Mark Rhodes, who I could almost consider a savior. The young man who saved me from an eternity of loneliness, depression, and hell.

I would never tell him that. I wouldn't want the young man to think that I respected him, that I appreciated his respect and his help.

Of course, maybe hunting Mark down and breaking into his apartment wasn't the _most_ courteous way to do it, but I was a desperate man.

Actually, not really a man. An obstinate, stubborn soul who refused to move on. That's the best way to put it, I think.

I don't like being called a ghost. Nor do I like being called "Doctor Octopus" or "Doc Ock." I'd like to find whoever dubbed that name for me and kill them.

Well, not kill them. Really. I don't kill. Not anymore.

Anyway…it took me a while to find out where Mark Rhodes lived. I _should_ have just followed him home that first time; it wouldn't have been difficult. But I had actually thought that he would return.

He didn't.

And I slowly began to realize in the months that followed after our encounter that perhaps I _needed_ to speak to Peter Parker. Perhaps I needed to apologize, work things out with him… Maybe that was the very thing that had bound me to this world.

So for the first time in ten long years, I left the safety of Pier 56 and ventured out into the heart of Manhattan, looking for the only person I believed could help.

I chose for no one to see me as I walked down the maze-like urban sprawl of New York City. So basically it was a game of dodge-the-people-who-can't-see-you. To tell the truth, it was nerve-wracking.

It's a strange feeling, having someone walk through you. Despite what I said earlier, I _do_ feel something when someone walks through me. It's uncomfortable; I can feel their warmth, but not much else. It makes me wonder what the living person feels when they walk through me. Probably an icy cold chill; I had seen the effects of my touch on Mark. It was something to think about, anyway.

It had taken hours of wandering the still-familiar streets of Manhattan before, by mere coincidence, I found him walking home. I was quite irritated after having about two hundred people walk through me in the span of an hour, so I just quietly tracked him to his apartment before returning "home" myself. I wasn't in the mood to confront the boy now. Tomorrow would do.

The next day was eventful. After the initial shock had gone over and some VERY wrong misconceptions had been cleared, Mark Rhodes had agreed to help me. As luck would have it, Parker wasn't too hard to find after all; he was a science teacher at one of the Manhattan public schools. Of course, I was having Mark confirm this fact, but I was almost positive that "Mr. Parker" could only be Peter Parker. Who else could it be? I had known Parker; even, at one point, invited him to my home. I knew him well enough to know that there was a good bet he would go into teaching.

So Parker was a high school teacher now… I couldn't help but wonder how things had fared with his girlfriend, the red-head. What—what was her name now? I can't remember.

And of course there was the fact that Peter Parker was (and still is, apparently) Spider-Man.

After my little chat with Mark, I was standing in his room. Suddenly, I had an idea. A way, (through Mark Rhodes, of course), to contact Parker. A way to contact him without confronting him.

I just wasn't ready to meet Peter Parker in person yet.

Before I could convince myself otherwise, I borrowed (without asking) the things I would need; paper, writing utensils, and a clipboard to write on.

I felt guilty for taking his things, but I was planning on giving them back. Besides, it would just be awkward. This was the only way.

Putting the "stolen" items away, I looked out the open window. There was something I wanted to try…Theoretically it could be possible—I mean, if _this_ was possible, then there was really nothing outside the realm of possibility.

Once again, (as usual) I was right in my assumption.

I know this sounds ridiculous, but I can _fly_.

I don't really like it all too well, surprisingly. I prefer to keep my two feet on the ground, thank you very much. But it was an interesting experience in itself.

When I returned to the former site of Pier 56, it was just starting to get dark.

I looked around the area closely. Pier 56 had been utterly destroyed ten years ago, when the nuclear reactor had failed and I had died destroying it. Despite there being nothing here anymore, I still haunted (for lack of a better term) the area where I had died.

However, there were other abandoned buildings and whatnot scattered throughout the vicinity. I needed a new place to "live".

Going over to one of the decrepit waterfront shacks, I kicked down the warped door with some concentration. Sitting down on one of the crates, I put pen to paper and began to write…

The next day, I gave the letter that I had written to the boy, and he told me that he would get it to Peter Parker, but not without trying to dissuade me.

Dammit, I don't need anyone telling me what to do. I insisted that he deliver the letter to Parker. That being done, I began to go home.

Unfortunately, I was so distracted that I forgot to make myself unseen. This takes little concentration, but today I had a lot on my mind and forgot.

Someone saw me.

It was a young boy in a back alleyway. He couldn't have been more than twelve years old; he was actually kind of cute. What he was doing alone I don't know. He backed into a wall. "Who—who are you?" he asked, fear evident in his voice.

I glared at him. "Your worst nightmare," I growled. The kid turned and ran away screaming.

I made myself unseen and continued on my way home, sighing. I had probably scarred the boy for life… But I really wasn't in the mood today. I had so many questions…what would Parker think of my letter? Would he be angry? Would he agree to meet me?

All these questions would have to wait until tomorrow, I supposed.

The next afternoon, I made the trip to Mark's apartment building. Like the day before, I thought it would be rude to just break into his room again, so I sat on the steps and waited. On the doorstep, I spied a newspaper. Hmmm… I was sure Mark wouldn't mind if I read it.

I picked up the newspaper—it was the Daily Bugle, and guess who was plastered on the cover under the words "OFFICIAL MENACE OF NEW YORK"?

Spider-Man, of course.

Not that I was surprised. After twelve years, Spider-Man still fought crime; I had already known this. However, J. Jonah Jamenson was obviously still editor of what you could only call a trashy newspaper.

But I read it anyway. I hadn't read a newspaper in over ten years…

I became quite engrossed in the newspaper, so much I almost didn't hear Mark coming. But his footsteps were quite loud, so I looked up. I folded up the paper and tossed it to him. "Thank you for letting me borrow your newspaper," I said politely.

"Yeah, don't even ask first," he muttered darkly, putting the newspaper under the crook of his arm.

"Well, I _do_ have to keep up with the times, you know," I shot back. I pointed to the paper. "Spider-Man still makes headlines, I see. And the Yankees still play good baseball." I sighed. "Not much has changed in Manhattan. Ten years…I thought _something _of importance would have happened."

"I suppose, if that's the way you see it, Otto," the boy replied.

"Well, what did Parker have to say?" I asked, sitting next to him on the steps.

The boy grimaced and took a deep breath, and right then I knew it could only be bad news. "Actually…He was . He thought you were alive."

I laughed bitterly. "Trust me, if I was alive, hunting down Peter Parker would be the last thing I would do." I laughed again. "I can't believe he thought I was alive. Parker is a fool, an absolute fool. _If_ he would remember correctly, he left me to my fate. He knew I couldn't have possibly have survived that."

"'Left you to your fate?' What do you mean by that?" Mark asked curiously.

"Never mind," I snapped. I was _not_ going into details right now. "What happened next?"

"Mr. Parker accused me of writing it and said if it happened again I would be in serious trouble."

I sighed. Perhaps it hadn't been such a bright idea after all… ""I suppose you were right in trying to dissuade me, Mark," I said. "Pursuing Peter Parker is a lost cause."

I continued to talk with the young man about trivial things for a few more minutes, but my heart wasn't into it. I think Mark could tell, but I didn't care.

I shouldn't have been surprised by Peter's reaction—after all, it _had _been ten years. Perhaps he didn't want to deal with it—didn't want to confront the (literal) ghosts of his past.

It didn't matter. If Parker didn't want to talk to me, so be it. I wasn't going to harass him. Obviously Mark didn't care either. He was only helping me because he pitied me, apparent by the way he had treated me yesterday.

I don't need pity.

I was about to leave when I remembered that I wanted to ask the boy something. I turned around. "I couldn't help but wonder, Mark…"

"What? What is it?" he asked.

I pointed to his chest. "Why do you wear that necklace? I've never seen you without it." I had wondered why he always wore it. It must have some sentimental value to him…

As a reply, Mark pulled the long chain out from under his shirt. "It was my father's," he said softly.

"May I see?"

Mark carefully took off the chain and gave it to me. I handled it with the same care he did; it obviously meant a lot to him.

Attached to the long chain was a dog tag. I held it up, reading the name engraved on it.

Jonathan Rhodes.

Wait…what? No… it couldn't be…

So _that's _why Mark looked so familiar…

He was a spitting image of his father.

I slowly handed the chain to the boy before saying, "Your father is Jonathan Rhodes?" I asked in disbelief.

"Yeah. He was a doctor in the Marine Corps."

I shook my head. "I knew your father."

"WHAT? From where?"

"From college. We were roommates for some time at Empire State University."

"Whoah," Mark breathed, utterly shocked at my statement. "Small world."

But I barely heard him. The memories that had been suppressed for so long came flooding back…

_I balanced the typewriter precariously on one knee while holding a notebook in one hand. I was working on my physics paper which was due the next morning._

_With a free hand, I rubbed my eyes. Going out with Rosie when I had work to do probably wasn't the greatest idea…_

_Just then, Jon, my roommate, came barging in. I looked up. "Where have __**you**__ been all night, Jon? You do realize that it's one o'clock in the morning."_

_He shrugged, grinning like a banshee. "Been bar-hopping. Actually, I'm surprised you're even up, Otto. What are you doing?"_

"_My physics paper." I smiled wryly. "I had a date."_

_Jon smirked. "Oh, I forgot, you have a girlfriend now. Otto, the complete science geek, going out with Rosie Gardner, the English major. What a couple!" He made childish kissing sounds._

"_Shut up, Jon," I said, even though I knew he was just joking. I threw a pillow at him._

_Jon picked up another pillow and began beating me with it. "PILLOW FIGHT!" he yelled, hopelessly drunk…_

"So, you knew my father?" the boy asked for the third time.

"_Yes_," I said, exasperated. "I've told you all of this before, Mark. Your father and I were college roommates." We were now in Mark's bedroom, because we needed to talk and he was getting numerous stares from passerby.

I continued speaking. "We continued to be good friends even after college, up until…" I trailed off. "Up until the accident."

The boy looked at me curiously. "What happened with that, exactly?"

I shook my head. I still wasn't ready to tell him everything. I didn't trust Mark completely. "I'll tell you that another time."

Mark shrugged. "That's fine," he said. "Too bad you can't meet Dad, though. He's dead."

I had figured as much, noting earlier the _was_ and the way he had initially acted about the dog tags and the chain. "Yes, that is too bad," I said mournfully. I would have liked to have met him, but since he was dead… And a man like Jonathan Rhodes would have easily found peace in the afterlife, unlike me.

I looked out the window. "I best get going now, Mark," I said. "I have a lot on my mind right now, and I need some time alone." Without another word, I left Mark's apartment, thinking about Jonathan Rhodes and Peter Parker; two people that had impacted my life.

Two people I would never see again.

**Author's Note: **Thanks for reading! Don't forget to review!


	6. Don't Want To Dig Up the Past

The Haunting of Pier 56

Chapter 6—(Don't Want To) Dig Up the Past

**Author's Note:** **The following chapter has a new voice—that of Peter Parker, also known as Spider-Man. It's been ten years and Spidey is **_**still **_**fighting crime; but Peter has a life and worries all of his own. He's not really interested in digging up his past; he doesn't want anything to do with Dr. Otto Octavius ever again. But we'll see how that goes for him, because the past has a tendency of catching up with you, as Peter Parker will soon discover… **

I stared incredulously at the letter in front of me, daring myself to read it one more time. I had read the scrawled words so many times I had nearly memorized them, and yet… I read the letter again in disbelief.

I still found this difficult to believe. I mean, why wait ten years? I didn't get it. If Otto Octavius was alive, why would he have waited this long to contact me? And why?

Arrgh, I couldn't _deal_ with this right now. I _knew _that the letter was real, that Otto himself had wrote it; who else could have said those things?

But I couldn't deal with this. All of the shit with Doctor Octopus had happened ten years ago, ending with the twisted scientist sacrificing himself in the East River. Ten years ago. Let me say it again; _ten years ago._ TEN YEARS AGO!

Sure, I had felt a little guilty about Otto's demise. I mean, after all, he shouldn't have had to die like that; a freak and a monster in the eyes of the public. But that was what had happened; there was little I could do to change that.

I had probably been the only person in Manhattan that mourned Dr. Octavius to an extent. In the days after the disaster at the pier, everyone had been celebrating. _Celebrating._ This frustrated me to no end, but there was nothing I could really do about it. M. J. had voiced her opinion about Dr. Octavius to the press, _told_ them what had really happened, but everyone seemed intent on making him out to be the bad guy. Even today, "Doc Ock" has become a bit of the urban legend among today's youth. "Don't go to the piers or Doc Ock will get you!" I've heard them say, among other things.

I sighed, folding up the letter and placing it back into its envelope. No, I wasn't going to deal with this right now. I had already told the boy off, accusing _him _of writing the letter (though I knew this wasn't true). I had a life of my own; M. J. was pregnant, and Spider-Man still fought crime. I didn't need to—no, I _wasn't going to_ deal with this. I just wasn't going to. The last thing I needed was to dredge up old memories and by meeting with Dr. Octavius I was doing exactly that. No, I didn't need more issues to deal with; Spider-Man already had that covered for me.

"Sorry, Dr. Octavius," I whispered, picking up the envelope and placing it in a drawer on my desk. I closed the drawer shut with a snap. "I'm not digging up the past."

The letter, and Doctor Octavius, were thankfully forgotten; fighting numerous criminals, working as a science teacher, and spending the rest of my time with M.J. just didn't leave me any time to think about the letter sitting in the drawer.

That is, until Mary Jane found it.

She confronted me after a rather long day at work, drumming her fingers impatiently on the table, the envelope in front of her. "Peter, what is this?" she asked curiously, waving the envelope.

I bit my lip nervously. Oh, great. The last thing I had needed was Mary Jane finding that letter. "It's…it's just a letter. From an old friend."

"Guess you won't mind if I read it then," she said, and before I could protest, she opened the envelope, took out the envelope, and began to read it out loud.

"**Peter,"** she began. **"Let me begin with saying that there is so much to say. I have so much to say to you I couldn't possibly put it all on this piece of paper. But I will do my best." **Mary Jane continued. **"I would like to say that I am proud of you. I vaguely remember saying once that you were "brilliant, but lazy." You managed to greatly exceed my expectations. You've accomplished things I couldn't even have dreamed of. You should be proud of yourself. (Don't let that get to your head, though)."**

Although Mary Jane was reading the words, I could hear them being spoken by Doctor Octavius, _see_ him in some dismal place writing them. In my imagination, he sounded…sad. He sounded and looked regretful, as though only now he was realizing what had happened to him all those years ago.

M. J. continued reading, and I continued imagining that Doctor Octavius was speaking. "**I would like to meet with you soon and talk with you in person. It's been ten long years, I know, but there are things that we need to sort out. I know this must be overwhelming to you, but bear with me here." **She paused again. "**You can arrange a meeting with me, if you wish, through Mark Rhodes, the respectful young man who gave you this letter. I'm sure you know he has great potential; he reminds me somewhat of you. **A pause, and then, **"I look forward to meeting you soon, Peter; this will be a meeting long overdue. Sincerely, Doctor Otto Octavius." **She looked up from the letter at me, confused and shocked. '"Doctor Otto Octavius?'" she said in disbelief. "Doc Ock wrote you this letter?"

"I guess so," I said resignedly. "I have no idea how he survived, but I guess he is alive, and wants to reconcile ties with me." I folded up the letter and put it back in its envelope. "But I'm not going to. Not now."

Mary Jane looked at me, confused. "Why?" she asked. "Why not? I mean, it's been ten years. I am sure he must be very different than what he had been before. After all, he destroyed his own nuclear reactor to save everyone else."

"I know, I _know_," I said, exasperated. "I just don't want to deal with it right now."

M.J. touched my face lovingly. "But you'll have to deal with it sometime, tiger," she said.

"I know, and I will," I complied, caressing my wife's hair. "Just… after you have the baby. I'm too worried about you right now to deal with other things." I touched her stomach, feeling the life inside her. I kissed her, pulling back after nearly a minute. "Soon," I said.

"Alright," she said. "Soon."

I actually had no intention of meeting or dealing with Doctor Octavius. No, the past was the past, and I was _not_ reliving it.

But things never turn out the way I want to; I should have learned that a long time ago.

**Author's Note: Shorter than I expected, but it worked out good. Please review, as I enjoy feedback!**


	7. Tragedy Strikes

**The Haunting of Pier 56**

**Chapter 7—Tragedy Strikes**

**Author's Note: Well, I finally watched Spider-Man 2 again the other day (great movie), and that helped me out a lot with keeping my characters (Doc Ock, mostly) in-character. Maybe you will notice the difference. Maybe not.**

**Anyway, four things I would like to have come to light; firstly, this chapter is from Mark's point of view (my favorite point-of-view to write from). Secondly, this chapter is going to be long because, well… you will find out. Thirdly, we won't be hearing from Peter Parker for a while; not for a couple chapters, at least. And lastly, I apologize in advance for the cliffhanger at the end of the chapter…**

**Read onward, my friends!**

**Three Weeks Later**

I hopped out of bed, yawning as I stretched my arms. I went over to the window, yanking open the curtains and smiling as I looked out at the seemingly endless city skyline before me.

Today was Friday. That meant two things for me. It meant the coming of the weekend, of course, but it also meant something else.

Fridays I made the now regular trip to meet with the ghost in the run-down industrial area he now resided.

At our last meeting, he had gotten all depressed, even after discovering he knew my father, and left. He hadn't come back, and I had ventured out to seek him out, to see how the ghost was doing. He had seemed surprised to see me, to know that I had been actively seeking him out.

Since then I visited him on a regular basis, usually Fridays or Mondays. To tell the truth, I enjoyed our meetings. Despite my initial reaction to the ghost, I was starting to like him. He had a lot of problems, a lot of trouble he had to deal with from his past… If I could help him with that, I would be happy to. And to tell the truth, I think he enjoyed my visits as well. At least, I think he did. I could never tell what Otto was thinking.

Thankfully, the day passed quickly, and before I knew it, the school day was over, and I was walking home.

I went into my bedroom and put my bookbag on the floor, nearly emptying it (except for my physics homework, and I feel I really don't need to explain myself about that). I picked up some books I had gotten and put them in the bag, along with some food I had packed for this trip.

I slung the bag over my left shoulder. I was ready.

My mother confronted me in the kitchen. "Where are you going today, dear?" she asked, just a little concerned (since I seemed to be at home less and less nowadays).

"A friend's house," I replied nonchalantly. This was a kind of half-truth; though Otto was my friend, he really didn't live in a house. And he technically wasn't even alive… But I wasn't going to tell my mother any of that. "I'm going to study…"

My mother nodded understandably. "Are you staying the night, dear?"

I mentally shuddered. It was nice to visit Otto, but stay the night in even the _area_ in which he haunted? No thanks.

But again, not wanting to go into explanations, I just smiled and shook my head. "No, I'm not. Probably staying there late, though."

"Call me if you do decide to stay over, dear. And if you're not, be home by 11 pm," my mother said. "Stay out of trouble, and be safe." She kissed me on the cheek. "And try to have fun, Mark, my dear."

I smiled, waved, and headed out the door.

About twenty minutes later, I arrived at the industrial docking area where my friend resided. Approaching a run-down industrial storage shed, I knocked on the front door; a warped piece of wood on which the hinges had fallen off long ago.

"Come in," the voice said. I could hear the happy note in his voice. I smiled, breathing a sigh of relief. I hated it when I caught Otto in one of his frequent bad moods.

I pulled open the door, and my ghostly friend looked up from the book he was reading. "Oh, hello, Mark," he said, a smile tugging at his lips. "No kite-flying today, I see?"

I smiled. "No, no kites today." The last time I had visited, I had brought my kite with me, with the intention of going out to Central Park to fly it afterwards. An interesting conversation had ensued, the result of which was the two of us laughing about Otto's story about the one and only time he had tried to fly a kite.

I set my bag on the ground, pulling out the books I had gotten out for Otto at the public library. "I brought some more books for you to read," I said. All from the non-fiction section.

Otto took them gratefully, setting them down on a crate. "Thank you, Mark," he said, flashing me a genuine smile.

"Hey, it's no problem," I said, grinning from ear to ear.

He gave me a meaningful look. "I just want you to know I appreciate it." Without getting up, one of his metallic arms zoomed across the room and retrieved the books I had lent him on our last visit. "I finished reading those," he noted indifferently.

I accepted the books from the outstretched metallic claw (they still made me nervous, as I did not know what they were capable of) and put them back into my bag to return to the library. "Any requests for next time?"

"Actually, yes. Could you get some poetry?"

Thankfully, I managed to keep a straight face, because he might have just lost it if I laughed. "Okay," I said. "I didn't know you liked poetry."

He nodded. "Yes, I used to. Rosie used to love poetry…"

I was going to ask who Rosie was (a girlfriend? His wife?) but decided against it. Best not to ask too many questions…

The ghost decided to change the subject. "Do you have any homework, Mark?" he inquired.

As an answer, I pulled out my physics homework. "Yep, sure do."

Otto clapped his gloved hands together in anticipation. "Let's get to work then, shall we?"

A couple hours later, I put away my (completed) homework, my brain practically fried by another one of Otto's - tutoring sessions. "Thanks for the help," I said.

"You are most certainly welcome, Mark," he said.

I shook my head in amazement. "I'm telling you, Otto, you should have gone into teaching. You really are a great tutor."

"Thank you," Otto replied. "I used to help your father when we were in college. He wasn't the greatest at math and science either." The ghost paused a moment, and I could tell he was reminiscing. "You're a lot like your father, Mark. Though you _are_ a bit more…calmer. Not quite as rowdy."

"What do you mean by that?"

Otto chuckled. "Your father was quite the partier. Always partying the night away…It's a wonder he even graduated."

I smiled to myself, thinking about Dad. He always had liked a party…

"You know, you're right," the ghost said suddenly, and I looked up. His brown eyes had that empty look in them again, and that hard edge was starting to come into his voice. "I should have went into teaching, instead of pursuing a crackpot dream that amounted to nothing."

"It's not your fault, Otto," I said, but my words failed to assure him.

"Not my fault?" he said incredulously. "My dear boy, it is _all_ my fault." He turned away from me. "Come. I have something to show you." Otto then promptly walked _through_ the wall, and I sighed. When the ghost was moody, he defied all laws of physics….

I walked out of the shack and attempted to follow him across the industrial junkyard… Wait—what was he _doing_?

I caught up with him, running just to reach the ghost. "What are you doing?" I asked when I finally reached him.

He whipped around and glared at me. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm walking."

"_You're_ not walking," I said, pointing to the metallic arms. "_They _are."

Otto simply raised his eyebrows. "Yes," was all that he said, as though it was the most normal thing in the world. He turned away and continued that strange gait, his metallic arms doing the walking for him. His actual feet dangled several feet off the ground. The metallic arms propelled him forward, making metallic clanking sounds as they 'walked.' It was a very eerie and almost scary sight.

Needless to say, he reached the edge of the docks before I did. When I finally reached the small dock, he was already there, staring out onto the East River.

I recognized this place. It was very familiar…

"This is where I first met you," I said.

He nodded. "Yes," he agreed. "But this was also where I died."

He floated over the river, stopping at a certain area above the waves. "I died here," he said softly. "Because I was a fool; I didn't know what I was doing until it was too late."

"How did you die, Otto?" I asked.

He seemed surprised by my question, but he answered it anyway. "I drowned. Not a pretty way to die, boy. It wasn't painless, either.

I frowned. Not a look of pity, but one of sorrow. "I figured as much."

"Really, now? How did you know?" he asked, a little miffed.

I looked the ghost over. "You're always wet. Like you, uh, drowned or something." This was true; his coat and hair were always drenched, as though he had been in a torrential downpour. Or had drowned.

The ghost looked himself over stoically. "You're right," he said indifferently. "I never really noticed." He turned away, probably intending to head on back to the industrial storage shed.

"Why did you drown?" I asked, unable to contain my curiosity.

He blinked, but didn't glare at me or look angry at all. He looked…sad. He began to speak. "Well, to begin with, I was always a weak swimmer. Absolutely dreadful."

"Yeah, but why were you here in the first place? Why did you die?"

If looks could kill, I think I would be dead right now, judging from the nasty glare he gave me. "I do not feel the need to _entertain_ you with horror stories about my life tonight, Mark." Otto began to walk away in that strange way he had before, and I begrudgingly followed him.

When we got back, it was nearly dark. "Have you eaten anything, Mark?" Otto asked, concerned. "You look hungry."

"Oh, yeah. Right." I had nearly forgotten to eat. As I reached into my bag to grab the food I had packed, my hand slipped and the bag fell over, my father's old cigar tin falling out. I reached to pick it up, but, to my surprise, the ghost beat me to it. He picked it up, looking at it with bemusement. "What is this?" he asked, but not really addressing me. "An old cigar tin? Damn, I could kill for a cigar right now," he muttered.

"You smoked?" I asked. Otto didn't really seem the type to smoke cigars, but I was slowly learning that the ghost was more than just a strange apparition.

He glared at me, kind of peeved that I had broken his reverie. "Yes. I picked it up after…" The ghost didn't need to finish his sentence. I knew what he meant. He was talking about what I called the Event, the unnamable circumstance which had really screwed him up and he refused to talk about.

Otto looked at me, concerned. "_You_ don't smoke, do you, boy?"

I shook my head. "No, of course not." I pointed to the tin. "That was my dad's."

He nodded understandably. "Your father… of course." He gave the tin back to me without another word, and I put it away, exchanging it for a banana. I began to peel it. "Do you miss eating, Otto?"

He stared wistfully at the banana. "I miss coffee," he said finally. "And cold pizza." He glanced at me. "But I believe that I miss breathing more than I miss eating, Mr. Rhodes."

It was getting dark, and Otto was getting moody again. Time for me to make my leave. And soon. As soon as I finished eating, I stood up. "It's getting dark," I said. "I better get going."

"No need," the ghost said. He set his metallic arms into a flurry of motion, bringing out some candles and matches to brighten the darkened storage shed. With a ghostly hand, he attempted to light the matches.

Otto swore. "My hands are too cold," he explained. I gently took the matches from him, striking them and lighting the candles. Looking closer, I noticed to my annoyance that they were my mother's candles.

"Ya know, I _really_ wish you wouldn't take our stuff without asking," I said, a little irked at the ghost.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry," he said guiltily.

I shook my head. "If you want something, you don't have to be afraid to ask." I reached out, touching the ghost's shoulder. "Despite what everybody thinks, you're a good person, Otto, and I—"

"No!"

A metallic arm knocked my hand off his shoulder with astounding speed and I stumbled back in shock. It hissed in my face menacingly before pulling back towards its owner.

"I am _not_ a good person," Otto growled, "and I won't have you telling me any different." The ghost turned away from me, his head in his hands.

I reached out my hand, but not stupid enough to touch the ghost again. "I'm sorry…" Even the littlest things set him off, and it saddened me to see a person with such little self-esteem.

"No, Mark." He turned around. Otto was silently crying, tears falling down his cheeks. "_I _am sorry. For befriending you. For lashing out at you. For—for everything." The ghost looked as though he was about to suffer a nervous breakdown. "I—just go, Mark. I need to be alone. You can come back next week."

"Alright, Otto, but I—"

"GET OUT!" he shouted, and I could truly see why everyone had feared him ten years ago.

I left.

As I walked home, I thought about what kind of hell Otto must have been through to act like that. He was moody, depressed, extremely touchy and sensitive to just about anything I said to him…

Maybe I should just stop visiting him.

But…no.

I had noticed that over the past few weeks, Otto had become more…solid, more real. He didn't even have that faded, blurred look anymore. Though he couldn't hurt me (I think) he looked almost alive; you could barely tell the difference. Actually, I wouldn't have been able to tell the difference if I hadn't known beforehand that he was dead. It was though he had been fading away, and human interaction with me had given him some kind of… purpose. Some reason to keep on existing.

No, I couldn't stop meeting with the ghost. If I did, he might fade away entirely.

I really didn't want that to happen.

He would stop once he understood that I cared about him and that he could trust me.

Hopefully, that would happen soon.

Nodding at the white glowing "Walk" sign, I began to cross the street (on the crosswalk, of course).

I saw the headlights, I heard the beeping, and I heard the screech of tires and the cursing of the driver. But the driver was going too fast; I couldn't dive out of the way in time.

The vehicle hit me with astounding force; throwing me backwards. For a few seconds it was as though as I was flying, gliding through the air… I was confused; did that vehicle just hit me? I—what was going on? I—

And then there was silence, broken only by the mechanholy whine of sirens in the distance.

**Author's Note: Oh no! What will happen to Mark, Otto, and Peter now? We shall soon discover this… In the meantime, please review! I appreciate the feedback!**


	8. A Guilty Conscience

**The Haunting of Pier 56**

**Chapter 8—A Guilty Conscience**

**Author's Note: The following chapter is from Otto's point of view. Please note again that flashbacks and thoughts will be in **_italics_. **I would also like to say a few things… First of all, I am sure you have noticed that I occasionally put lyrics at the beginning of the chapters… If you have any good suggestions that relate to the story, let me know please. :) I was going to do that for this chapter, but I'm putting it at the beginning of the last chapter. *Gasp* I know, I'm thinking about the ending already! Oh-nos! But I'll admit that this has been GREAT fun already, and I'm barely half-way through. Also, I may change the rating to Teen, due to the fact that it is kind of depressing, it's a little graphic in this chapter, and Otto likes to swear a lot. Probably not in character, I know, but… :) Thank you to my sister, Spittlebug, for her little edit on this chapter. Also, thank you to those who review, and enjoy the following chapter!**

Guilt is a terrible thing. It eats away at your soul, destroying you from the inside out.

I should know. I've been haunted by guilt for the past ten years. And I will probably continue to be haunted by guilt for the next ten thousand lifetimes.

In the depths of my mind, I still hear them and see them. See their looks of fear. Hear their screams.

I can still hear their screams.

They all feared me, and like well they should have, for they knew I would kill them if I deemed it necessary.

Which occasionally, I did.

Deem it necessary to kill, I mean.

But among all those voices, I hear a new voice. A new face. A new source of guilt.

Mark Rhodes.

As I stood there, alone, watching the sun set underneath the buildings of Manhattan, I thought about my last encounter with the boy.

"Despite what everybody thinks, you're a good person, Otto."

What had made the boy think that? I wasn't a good person.

I would never be a good person again.

Mark's hurt look he had given me had been haunting me for a few days now. The saddest thing about it was that I had seen fear in his eyes.

I had caused Mark to fear me. What had I done?

He was a fine young man; well-liked, hard-working… But what surprised me most was the boy's kindness. And the fact that he gave me the utmost respect. Respect that I really didn't deserve.

But I don't want to think about Mark because when I think of that boy, I always go back to thinking about his father. Mark is so much like John in every way; I don't know why I didn't notice it before. I think I had forgotten about all of it.

And of course, thinking about Jonathan Rhodes reminds me of the last time we talked to each other. It had been about a week before my demonstration…

_That day, I was working particularly hard on both the actuators and the fusion reactor. I had deadlines to meet. And Harry Osborn would no doubt show up just when I was having a problem, to "check in and see how I was doing." He had been funding my project for nearly a year now, but that didn't mean that he wasn't an arrogant idiot. _

_Truth be told, he was quite annoying._

_So, when I heard a knock on the laboratory door, I naturally assumed it was him. I grudgingly pulled up my goggles and went to the door. "Who is it?" I grumbled._

"_Otto, it's Rosie. There's someone here to see you."_

_I opened the door immediately. "Who is it?" I asked, kissing my wife._

"_It's your friend John Rhodes. He said he wanted to talk to you."_

_I raised my eyebrows, but didn't voice my thoughts. John Rhodes…? I hadn't heard from him in quite a while. "Let him in," I said, a little excited at the prospect of seeing my friend again._

_A few seconds later, John walked into my lab. He seemed very happy to see me. "Otto!" he exclaimed._

"_John! It's been too long!"_

_We embraced only as best friends do, and when we pulled back, I said, "What brings you here today, John?"_

"_I just wanted to tell you that I can't make it to your demonstration next week."_

"_How come?"_

"_I have some stupid physician's conference to go to. I tried to back out of it, but my boss won't budge." He paused a moment, sighing before saying, "I'm really sorry I can't come. I know how much this means to you."_

_I _was_ disappointed, but I could understand perfectly. There had been many a time_ I_ had had to cancel something important for work. Even if it had meant a night out or a date with Rosie._

_I shrugged, trying not to show my disappointment. "Don't worry about it. I understand."_

_John sighed. "That's good. How are your projects coming along?"_

"_Wonderfully, actually. Would you like me to show them to you?"_

"_Sure, why not?"_

_I smiled. "This way," I said, leading him towards the fusion reactor in the corner. "How are Nancy and Mark?" I asked._

_John nodded. "Fine, fine. Little Mark misses your visits."_

_I glanced sideways at my best friend. "Does he, now? I'll have to come around and visit soon, once my project is finished."_

_John nodded. "I know. We have both been quite busy. It seems as though we never have the time to meet and chat like we used to."_

_That was certainly true. What with my work and John's, our schedules never seemed to coincide anymore. We saw less and less of each other nowadays. Although maybe some of that was Nancy, John's wife, as well. Let's just say she didn't like me and leave it at that._

_I showed my friend the fusion reactor, and he seemed quite impressed by it. "So, this is what has been taking up all of your time," he said when I was finished explaining._

"_Oh, no. That's not all I've been working on," I replied, grinning. "I also have another…little project."I walked over to the actuators, which had been covered by a large white sheet. I whipped the sheet off with a flourish. "I also have been working on… these."_

_John looked at my actuators incredulously. "What are they?" he asked, taking a step back._

"_These… are my actuators. They are my little 'helpers,' so to speak."I glimpsed at John, who looked concerned and to my surprise, almost… almost afraid. "Would you like me to demonstrate how they work?" I asked him._

"_How do they work?"_

_I went over to the actuators, touching the harness. "I invented this myself. Once I put the harness on, I control these directly through my brain. They connect to my spinal cord and the—"_

"_Wait… you actually _wear_ them?"_

_I raised my eyebrows. "Of course I wear them. Their sole purpose is to help me create nuclear fusion. They can do things I couldn't possibly do with my hands."_

_John glanced at them anxiously. "They look really dangerous. Actually, they look like they are capable of killing someone."_

_I scoffed. "What did I just tell you? They weren't built for killing. Don't you trust me, John?"_

"_Yeah, I trust you, but…" He looked around the room nervously. "How exactly do you wear them?" he asked. "Wouldn't that… hurt a little?"_

"_It _is_ a little painful," I admitted. "But a little pain is a worthy exchange for helping to better mankind."_

_We talked a little longer, but it was only a few minutes later when John told me he had to leave. "Let Mark and Nancy know I'll be coming over for a visit sometime next week. Thanks for stopping by…" I told him, already returning to my work._

_John nodded. "I will. And Otto?"_

"_Yes?"_

"_Be careful."_

_He left, and I got back to work. Rosie came in a few moments later. "How is your friend?" she asked. _

"_He's doing alright," I said, frowning. "But he doubts my work."_

"_Oh, Otto…" Rosie wrapped her arms around me. "_I_ don't doubt you," she replied. "Now, why don't you stop working for a minute and come and have some dinner…? I'll bet you haven't eaten all day, now have you?"_

"_No…" I admitted, putting my things away for now._

_Rosie kissed me. "You are such a workaholic, Otto," she said playfully._

"_Don't I know it," I replied, smiling, as I followed her out of my lab…_

I put my head in my hands. Rosie… Oh, Rosie… And John... I bet that John was happy that he couldn't come to the demonstration afterwards.

Because he would have watched me destroy myself.

But being cruel to Mark was dishonoring John's name. An apology was necessary. And soon.

Even so, it took me a few days to summon up the courage to enter Mark's apartment to meet with him and apologize. You see, I had forgotten about Nancy, John's wife. She hadn't really liked me when I was alive, so I couldn't imagine what she would think of me dead. I would have to tread carefully.

Luckily, there was no sign of Nancy as I floated through the front door. I got to Mark's room with not a single glimpse of the woman.

But to my surprise, Mark wasn't there. I searched his room thoroughly, but he just wasn't here. I looked at the alarm clock sitting on Mark's stand. It stated that it was 8:30 pm. Mark should be home right now, no? He wasn't one to run off in the middle of the night.

_Maybe he's at a friend's house,_ I told myself. _Or maybe he had to go somewhere with his mother!_ Yes, that was it.

But I had the sinking feeling that something was terribly wrong. Mark's room seemed… empty. His bed was made, though it looked as though he hadn't slept in it for days. Everything was neat. From what I had seen of the boy's room the last time I had broken in here, it was too neat and orderly. If Mark had been here, this room would have been a lot more cluttered.

What had happened to Mark? I couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible had happened to him. Maybe he was even—

No. He was too young to die.

I glided down the stairs into the kitchen, looking for any clue to Mark's whereabouts. Nothing in the kitchen caught my eye, and I ventured into the living room, looking around the neat and tidy space.

I couldn't say that Nancy didn't keep a tidy house. Although this was a different apartment from the one that I had once frequently visited, her touch and style was still seen in the way the room was neatly organized, clean and free of clutter.

I'm not going into the reasons I don't like Nancy right now. Let's just say she was a piece of work and leave it at that.

Suddenly, the phone on the stand next to the couch rang, effectively startling me. Almost immediately, Nancy herself emerged from one of the bedrooms and picked up the phone.

Her face was red and streaked with tears, her normally neat brown hair disheveled. She had been crying. Oh, hell and damnation. Mark was dead.

I told myself not to jump to conclusions and listened closely to the conversation, trying to pick up any possible clues about Mark and what had happened to him.

"Hello? Oh, Jemima!" she cried. "Are you going over to the hospital tomorrow to see Mark? Oh, good. Stop by the apartment first for some lunch." She paused for a minute. "Oh, Jemima… They don't know if he's going to make it…" She began crying into the phone. "What would I do if I lost him? I already lost John, and now I have to lose my son, too? I don't know what to do…" she sobbed. "No, they haven't caught the person yet. Supposedly it was a hit and run; they didn't even stop!" She grabbed a tissue off of the coffee table. "Why would someone do such a thing? He's only eighteen years old! He has his whole life ahead of him!" She paused again. "Yes, I suppose it's God's will now. Mark is talking a little, so that's a good sign. Hopefully he'll pull through." She nodded, still silently crying. "So I'll see you tomorrow, then? Do you need directions to my apartment? No? Alright, come up and we'll have lunch before we go to the hospital. See you then, Jemima. Mmmhmm. Bye." Nancy hung up the phone and ran a hand through her hair. Then she put her head into her hands and began to cry loudly, her ratcheting sobs torturing me.

I watched her weep. So my assumptions had been close after all. Mark was dying. I didn't even know if I would be able to say I was sorry before he died. I nearly started weeping myself.

All because some asshole had to go and run him over with a car.

I felt terribly sorry for Nancy. She had to lose John (I don't know the circumstances; Mark never said), and now she was going to lose her only son.

I know what loss is like. It's as though someone has ripped out your heart, smashed it, and then stuck it back inside of you. Emotional pain can't be seen, but it hurts just as much. Perhaps even more.

I had lost my wife. Even so, I couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose a child. We never had children; although we had both wanted one, we had learned that Rosie couldn't bear a child. It had been sad for the both of us, but we had gotten over it eventually.

Still… It must be heart-wrenching to learn your son was dying. Although she couldn't see it, I reached out a hand. "I'm sorry…"

Suddenly, her head jerked up swiftly. Her face was that of shock, her face still streaked with tears. "Who's there?" she croaked. "Who said that?

Oh, hell. I must have spoken without realizing it. "I'm sorry," I said again.

This only alarmed her more. "Who's there?" she said loudly. She ran into the kitchen and grabbed a long knife, returning to the living room. "Show yourself!" she shouted. "If you don't come out from where you're hiding, I'll find you and kill you myself!" A person who is upset and angry is really quite something to be feared, but I had no need to fear her. After all, she couldn't hurt me in any way whatsoever.

I started chuckling despite myself. "You can't kill what's already dead, my dear."

Her eyes widened, and she breathed a sigh of awe. "John…? John, is that you?"

I couldn't believe my ears. She actually thought I was John, coming back from the dead to speak to her! Unbelievable. Though I suppose you'll believe anything when you are grieving and under emotional stress.

Well, I certainly wasn't going to tell her who I actually was. I didn't know what she would do if I did tell her, but it wouldn't be good.

No, the best thing to do here would be to play along with what she believed. Perhaps I could even use this to my advantage…?

So, in reply, I said, adjusting my voice a little, "Yes, Nancy. I've come looking for our son. Is he alright?"

"Oh, John!" Nancy cried. I felt terrible deceiving the woman like this, but what other choice did I have? It wasn't as though she would welcome me if she knew who I really was.

"You're going to see Mark?" she said, still in awe.

"Yes," I replied. "Where is he staying? I want to see him."

She gladly told me what hospital Mark was staying at, and even the room number. She also told me that though he was in critical condition, he occasionally talked when he felt well enough.

"Thank you," I said solemnly. I hadn't shown myself to her, of course, so Nancy thought she was just talking to the disembodied voice of her dead husband.

"Oh, John! I love you. Please look over our son."

"Nancy, I always have. And I will always look after both of you." With that, I left the apartment, floating through one of the walls and drifting down to the ground.

As I made my way to Midtown Hospital, I couldn't help but feel dreadfully guilty about what I had just done. Deceiving Nancy had been an awful thing to do, and I felt terrible about it.

But I really hadn't been left with any choice. It was either deceive Nancy, or tell her the truth and have her chase me out of the apartment. Either option hadn't been desirable. I had simply chosen the lesser of two evils. However, it hadn't been the honest choice, and I felt bad about it.

I quickly made my way to the hospital that Nancy told me that Mark was being treated at. It was halfway across the city, but luckily for me I knew Manhattan well. I got there more quickly than I normally would have because I flew there.

I really don't like flying. It makes me feel like Casper the Friendly Ghost from those Saturday morning cartoons I used to watch as a kid.

Believe me, I'm no Casper.

But this was vitally urgent, and you know what they say, don't you? "Desperate times call for desperate measures."

Anyway, when I got there, I got a feeling of déjà vu. I felt that I had been here before, though it really didn't look that familiar to me.

I brushed this feeling aside. I had to find Mark's room, and the easiest way to do that was not by going through the hallways and elevators. I simply began to go through the rooms haphazardly. I had no need for doors—walking through walls was the easiest, although I'm sure I may have startled one or two of the patients by walking through them.

In my search for Mark, I wasn't paying attention to where I was going and accidently ended up in the surgery section of the hospital. Trying to find my way out, I found myself in an empty operating room.

I very nearly ran through a surgeon in my hurry to get out of there. That operating room…it had looked very nearly exactly like the one…like the one I had woken up in after my accident…

_Sounds. Muffled at first, they grew louder by the second. Crashing sounds. Sounds of things breaking, and of people screaming and shrieking in terror._

"_No, stay away from me! Please don't—AUAGGHHH!"_

"_AIIEEEEEEEE!"_

_KER-CRASH._

_The noise became quickly deafening. But then, as swiftly as it had begun, it was over. An eerie silence descended on wherever I was, and I groggily fluttered my eyes, which were covered by some kind of cloth. I groaned softly. I felt absolutely terrible. My head hurt something awful, but my back felt even worse. Where the hell was I? What had happened? I couldn't really remember._

_Something removed the cloth from my eyes and I pushed myself onto my knees. I opened my eyes wide to look at my surroundings and instantly regretted it, squeezing them shut. The lights… so bright… they were hurting my eyes terribly. _

_I felt something adjust itself on my face, and I warily opened my eyes again. It had been a pair of sunglasses. "That's better," I mumbled. I looked around the room…_

…_And immediately wished I hadn't. _

_A scene of utter carnage and destruction greeted me. Blood splattered the walls. Destroyed surgical equipment was flung haphazardly around the room. And lying on the floor around me were several unmoving doctors and nurses._

_I looked closer and nearly threw up. They had been horribly mutilated, some beyond recognition. Limbs were torn from bodies, bloody gaping holes in chests… oh good God, one of them was actually decapitated…! What the hell had just happened here? It looked as though a maniacal axe murderer had razed the place._

_I heard a clicking sound next to me and I turned my head. Looking at me almost curiously was one of my actuators, and I vaguely remembered what had happened. Something about… something about the experiment… Something had gone wrong…_

_The actuator on the other side of my head made a similar clicking sound, as if it was vying for attention. I turned my head to the other side to glance at it…_

…_And discovered it was covered in blood and gore. Blood steadily dripped off one of the pincers as it retracted away from me. With absolute horror I realized that… that somehow, __**I**__ had done this._

"_NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"_

As I glided swiftly through the hospital corridors, I asked myself why I was doing this. Being in this hospital was forcing me to relive memories I never wanted to remember again…

_I stumbled through the corridors, incoherent and not even really knowing where I was going or what I was doing. People ducked out of the way as I came through, fear shining in their eyes._

_Suddenly, I remembered something. Rosie! Surely she must be alive… she must be somewhere in this hospital as well. Using one of my actuators, I pulled a blue-clad doctor aside. "Where is Rosie?" I asked him._

"_Uh—I'm—I'm not supposed to tell you that, Doctor. Please calm down! Everything's going to be—"_

_I shoved the doctor against the wall violently. With a hand, I grabbed the cuff of his shirt. "I don't care what I'm supposed to know," I snarled. "Tell me! Where is she? WHERE IS ROSIE?"_

"_Please—please calm down, Doctor. I'm sorry…"_

"_Sorry for what? Sorry for being a nuisance?"_

"_No, Doctor. About your wife…"_

"_What about Rosie? What happened to her?" I demanded, shoving the frightened doctor further into the wall._

"_I'm sorry, Doctor. Your wife was dead on arrival. She was killed instantly by shards of glass when the laboratory windows shattered."_

"_You're telling me she's __**dead**__? My Rosie's… dead…?"_

_The doctor nodded sadly. "Yes. I'm sorry…"_

_I threw the doctor aside and crumpled to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. "Rosie…rosie…rosie…WHY?"_

Thankfully, it wasn't too much longer before I found Room 208, but I was still an emotional wreck as I stood in front of the door. I didn't really want to go in. Didn't really want to deal with more pain and suffering. Hadn't I dealt with enough with that?

But Mark needed me. Or rather, I needed him. Maybe we needed each other. I had no idea at this point, but I couldn't be a coward and abandon the boy in his most desperate hour.

I walked through the door and approached the bed. Mark didn't look good. He didn't look good at all. His head was bandaged, as was his chest. One of his arms and both of his legs were in casts. The arm that wasn't in a cast was stuck with various IVs and needles. Various machines around his bed beeped methodically.

Mark's eyes were closed, but he didn't really look peaceful.

He looked dead.

I knelt down and ran a hand along the boy's forehead. I found myself saying words that weren't the ones I had rehearsed. "Mark, you probably can't hear me, but I wanted to thank you. I want to thank you for giving me a purpose. For giving me a reason to exist. I'll admit it to you, Mark; you're probably going to die. But at least when you were alive, you gave me life. You helped me discover myself. And that is all anyone could ask for. Thank you, Mark Rhodes."

I wiped tears from my eyes and got up. I turned around and began to leave. It wasn't the greatest good-bye I could have given him, but it was the best I could come up with. (After all, I'm a scientist, not a writer.). Mark's death would leave me alone again, cursed to haunt my place of death eternally; with not even a high school student to keep me company. I walked quickly. I had to leave the room before I burst into tears.

But then I heard a sound; an involuntary gasp of pain coming from Mark's bed. I quickly went over to him.

He looked at me tiredly, his eyelids fluttering. "O-Otto?" he murmured softly.

I knelt beside the bed again. "Yes, Mark," I said calmly. "I'm here."

"Otto…"

"What is it, Mark?"

He looked at me blearily and smiled weakly. "Otto…what's it like to die?"

I turned away, not wanting him to see me actually burst into tears. "Oh, God, Mark. Please don't ask me that. You're not going to die."

I looked back at the boy, but he had already slipped back into unconsciousness.

As I left the hospital, returning to the docks, my sadness and dismay about this situation slowly turned to frustration and rage. So it had been a hit and run, hmmm? Well, I would hunt down the inhuman bastard who had done this to Mark and make damn sure that that person would never do anything like that again. It was wrong for them to do that, and Mark, even if he lived, deserved to be avenged for his injuries.

But I admitted to myself that if I was going to extract revenge on the person who had hurt Mark, I couldn't do it alone. This city was vast; the culprit could be hiding anywhere.

I needed clues; and I needed someone to help me find this person.

And I now knew just who to ask.

It was time to find Peter Parker.

**Author's Note: Longest. Chapter. Ever! But I thought it was necessary. The chapters from Otto's point-of-view are generally longer. Have you noticed? Maybe it's because he has more to say… The next chapter will be a little shorter, I think. No matter; it was fun to write. Are the flashbacks alright? I spent a lot of time on those… Thanks for reading, and please do review! I appreciate the feedback and will usually take any ideas or suggestions you make! Keep your eyes out for Chapter Nine; it should be updated very soon!**


	9. A Meeting Long Overdue

**The Haunting Of Pier 56**

**Chapter 9—A Meeting Long Overdue**

**Author's Note: Allow me to note that this chapter has very little to do with the previous chapter…which is why I was writing it while I was writing Chapter Eight. I thought the following song lyric was appropriate… but let me know if it isn't. Oh, and one more thing; the following chapter is from Peter's point-of-view as he receives a most unexpected visitor… Thanks for reading! Enjoy!**

"It may sound absurd...but don't be naive  
Even heroes have the right to bleed  
I may be disturbed...but won't you concede  
Even heroes have the right to dream  
It's not easy to be me"

**From "Superman (It's Not Easy)" by Five for Fighting**

"Parker…?"

"Parker…"

"Wake up, Parker…"

"Mmmmphhh… MJ?" I mumbled, reaching across the bed, even though I knew MJ wasn't here. She had gone over to her parent's house for the weekend, leaving me quite alone.

"Goddammit Parker, I'm not your girlfriend. Now would you please get up?" the voice said, an edge creeping into it.

Hmmm… I knew that voice. The low, gruff voice with just a touch of a foreign accent was familiar to me. It took me a moment, however, to realize who it was.

And when I did, I was thrust into a memory, the last memory of the man who had previously been my idol…

"_I'll do it," he said, grabbing my arm. Those would be the last words he would say to me. With some effort, he majestically lifted himself out of the water with his metallic arms, beginning to go over to his failed experiment._

_But just before he reached the nuclear reactor, he turned and looked back, staring me in the eye. The gaze we shared for that moment was one of understanding—we both knew he wasn't coming back. And I hoped that he understood as well that in my eyes, he had redeemed himself._

_Not everyone can be a hero. Some are destined to fall… but that doesn't mean they don't see the light._

_As I swung away from Pier 56 with Mary Jane in my arms, the nuclear reactor was pulled underwater just as it imploded, taking everything with it. Including Doctor Octavius himself. "He did it," I said softly._

_Mary Jane nodded. "Yes, he did."_

"_In the end, Doctor Octavius… he did what was right. He was a hero." I frowned. "But no one will ever know."_

"PARKER!" I was startled out of my memory by the voice again.

I covered my head with my pillow. _This is all a bad dream,_ I told myself. _It's not real. Doctor Octavius can't be alive. It's not possible!_

"Guess I'm going to have to do this the hard way," the voice muttered.

Less than half a second later, I sat up in bed bolt upright the shock. Holy shit! It felt like someone had just dumped a whole bucket of ice-water onto my chest! I was certainly awake now, and ready to believe that Doctor Octavius was alive. Because this was obviously no dream.

"Finally," the voice said, relief showing through in the tone. "Thought I was never going to get you up."

"Doc-Doctor Octavius?" I stammered. If this was real, then why was he here in my bedroom in the middle of the night? This was strange. Very strange.

But 'strange' was Spider-Man's middle name, and I hadn't fought crime for twelve years without seeing _something_ unusual or a little out-of-the-ordinary.

Still, being a man of science myself, I had my questions. And I intended on getting answers.

The person in the dark sighed loudly. "_Yes_, Peter. It's me. Did you not get the letter I sent you several weeks ago?"

"Yes, but I don't get it. How did you survive that? No normal person could have—"

Doctor Octavius chuckled. "Whoever said I survived?"

Now he _really _had me confused. "Now wait just a minute here…" I said, baffled by this whole encounter. "If you didn't survive that, then what exactly is going on here?"

He sighed again. "May I turn the light on?" he asked. "It would be so much easier if I—"

"No! I mean, I'm not dressed!"

"You're sleeping_ naked_? Why Peter, you should know better than to do something like that in Manhattan," he said mockingly.

"I'm not sleeping naked!" I protested. "It's just…I'm only wearing a pair of boxers."

"It won't bother me," he said, and flicked the lamp on.

There he was, standing next to my bed. He looked exactly as I had remembered him. No, wait. He looked _exactly_ the way he had at that fateful night at Pier 56 ten years ago! I shook my head. Something wasn't quite right…

Doctor Octavius, meanwhile, took one look at the boxers I was wearing and burst into laughter. He began to laugh so hard it was a wonder he could breathe, clutching his stomach as he chortled loudly. "Oh…my…so…funny…so…ironic…" he gasped in between laughs. "Spider-Man…boxers…"

I felt my face flush red with embarrassment. "They were the only ones clean, okay?" I said loudly. "Stop laughing. It's not that funny."

Doctor Octavius's laughter slowly died down to a stop, though he was still grinning. "You have to admit it's at least a _little _funny," he pointed out.

"Yeah, I guess I can see the irony in it," I replied, chuckling a little myself.

We stared at each other for a minute, the situation returning once again to the dead seriousness it was as we both abruptly stopped laughing.

"You've got me confused, Doctor Octavius. What exactly is going on here? How did you survive that? I don't understand."

He sighed and rolled his eyes. "I guess I'll just have to show you, since you obviously have _no_ common sense whatsoever." He sighed again impatiently, and then grinned maliciously.

Suddenly, a tentacle lashed out. I cringed, closing my eyes and expecting to get thrown to the ground, but… nothing happened. I opened my eyes. "What did you just do?"

He rolled his eyes again. "You _still _don't get it, do you, Parker?" He held out his hand. "Don't close your eyes this time."

And Doctor Octavius promptly plunged his hand _through_ my chest, giving me the same icy sensation that had woke me up earlier.

"I…" I looked down at his hand. It was translucent, but the rest of him was solid…or appeared to be. I touched his shoulder, and my hand went through it. What amazed me was how cold he was. "Holy…holy shit…" I looked up at him in shock. "You're…you're… you really ARE dead, aren't you?"

Doctor Octavius smacked his forehead with a hand in mock exasperation. "And the boy finally understands what I've been trying to tell him for the past _five minutes_!" He shook his head. "Brilliant as you are, you should know that there are some things science has no explanation for."

"I'm not a boy," I protested. "I'm nearly thirty years old."

"Ah, sorry about that," he said, running a hand through his wet hair. "It's too easy to lose track of the time when you're dead."

I opened my mouth to ask a question, but the glare he gave me made me shut my mouth. "And before you even ask, I don't know how this happened either."

"There must be _some_ reason you're a ghost, Doctor Octavius, You must have—"

"I'm not a ghost," he snapped angrily. "I hate being called that."

He glided over (there's really no other way to describe it) to my nightstand. "I don't know how it happened," he repeated. "I just…am still here." He picked up a framed photograph. "Still going out with your girlfriend, I see," he noted. "What a gorgeous redhead. I must admit, Parker, you choose your ladies well."

"She's not my girlfriend," I corrected.

"No?"

"Mary Jane's my wife now. We got married around five years ago."

"So she's your wife now, eh?" he said, smiling. "Lucky you," he said bitterly, his smile replaced almost immediately with a familiar scowl.

"Listen, Doctor, I'm sorry about your wife. There's nothing you could have done about it."

Doctor Octavius didn't say anything in reply, setting the picture of Mary Jane and me down on the nightstand. "Do you have any kids?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Well, Mary Jane's pregnant. She's due in about a month. We're expecting it to be a boy."

"I certainly am happy for you, Peter. You seem to have made a nice life for yourself."

I nodded. "Yeah, I have…" I frowned at him. "You know, you never told me why you were here in the first place. Why you decided to wake me up in the middle of the night to tell me you're dead… What the hell do you want?" I said angrily, my voice rising with every syllable.

He didn't seem surprised at all by my outburst, though he glowered at me a little. "Of course there's a reason I've come here," he snapped. "You don't really think I'd come wake you up in the middle of the night for just a happy little chat, now do you? I just thought I'd talk to you a little first." He stared at me pensively. "It's been ten years, after all. I'd say I'm rather behind on the times."

"Yeah. Speaking of that, what _have_ you been doing for the past ten years?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Reflecting. Contemplating. Basically haunting Pier 56, if you want to call it that."

"So all those rumors about a ghost at Pier 56 were true," I breathed. "I really didn't believe them."

"I'm not a ghost," he snarled angrily. "Stop calling me that."

"If you're not a ghost, then what are you?"

He shook his head, staring at the floor. "I really don't know."

The room was quiet for a moment, and then Doctor Octavius asked, "So, how's Harry been doing?"

"Harry who?" I asked, confused as to who the ghost was talking about.

"Harry _Osborn_, numbskull," he said edgily.

"Oh. Harry…" I replied sadly. "Um, he's dead, actually."

Doctor Octavius smirked. "Well, isn't that the best news I've heard in…" He trailed off as he saw the expression on my face. "What?"

I gave the scientist a look of disgust. "Didn't you work with Harry Osborn? That's just a little hypocritical, isn't it?"

He laughed at my statement. "I never worked with Harry Osborn. I threatened to kill him if he didn't give me the tritium. The little slimeball made me work for it."

I scowled. "Yeah, well, can we not dredge up the past? I was recovering for a month over that whole ordeal."

"Big deal. I died over it. I'd say that's just a _tad_ worse than all of the trauma_ you_ endured," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

I crossed my arms. "What did you come here for, anyways? If it was just to argue with me, please go away. I work too much to lose sleep over someone who is just going to harass me."

"So I'm harassing you now?" the ghost said angrily. "Well, that's too bad, isn't it? IF you must know, I've come here… for your help."

"What could I possibly help you with?" I asked skeptically. "I may be Spider-Man, but I don't create miracles."

"No, but you mete out punishment under your own laws. And that's what I want you to do."

I smacked my forehead in exasperation. "If you're asking me to kill someone, Doctor, I can't do it. I don't kill people. And who the hell would you want me to kill for you anyway?"

Doctor Octavius scowled. "Do you really think I would want you to _kill_ someone for me? Parker, you disappoint me. I thought you knew me better than that."

"So did I."

He narrowed his eyes. "What the hell is _that _supposed to mean? If you're implying that…" he said, that cruel, determined look I had often seen ten years ago starting to appear on his face.

I held up my hands in protest. "I'm not implying anything! Really!"

"I was hoping that we could put everything that happened ten years ago behind us," he said bitterly. "The past is the past, Parker, and I regret every minute of it."

"If that's the case, let's just pretend that didn't happen, okay?"

"I'm happy with that."

We stared at each other again for a minute, again momentarily forgetting what we each wanted to say.

"So, what was it that you wanted me to do for you, Doctor Octavius?"

"Well…You know Mark Rhodes, don't you?"

"Of course I do. He was the kid that gave me that letter of yours." I stared at me curiously. "How do you know him?"

"We met several months ago at the docks. Apparently now it's some kind of ritual among teenagers to check out Pier 56 and see if it's haunted." He shook his head in mild disgust. "Absolutely ridiculous. Anyhow, it turns out that his father was a close friend of mine."

"Did you meet with the father?"

"No. He died a couple of years ago."

I frowned. "That's too bad," I said.

He gave me a slight glare. "You're getting me off the subject, Parker. Now, if you don't mind…?"

"No, go ahead. But can I ask you something first?"

He rolled his eyes. "Knock yourself out."

I pointed to his ghostly actuators. "If you're dead, why are the… arms still with you?"

"God, Parker. You have a horrible memory. If you would remember, they were fused to my _spine_. They were as part of me as are one of your regular limbs." He stared out into space, his eyes glazing over a bit as he obviously lost himself into his thoughts. "Although…"

"Although what?"

Doctor Octavius snapped out of his apparent reverie. "Never mind," he said. "I'll tell you another time. I'm not here to talk about my actuators."

He cleared his throat before continuing.. "Now, I'm sure you know what happened to Mark, don't you?"

I frowned. "Yeah. Apparently some idiot ran him over with a truck the other night. Now he's in the ICU. I hope he pulls through—he's hurt really bad."

"He's dying, Peter." His look of regretful sadness immediately changed to a look of rigid, angry determination. "I want to find the sick, uncaring _bastard_ who did this."

"That's not going to be easy…" I warned. "Even with the police description, that person—and that truck—could be anywhere."

"There's a police description? Good. That increases our chances. If we work together, we have an excellent chance of finding this… person."

"Now wait just a minute," I objected. "It's not that I don't want to help you, but…" I didn't really want to get into something that was over my head.

"You're not going to help me," he said dejectedly. "I really expected better from you, Parker…" To my utter surprise, he just… disappeared, winking out like a light bulb that has been turned off.

"No, wait!" I shouted. "Don't leave!"

The ghost popped back into my vision once more. "Why shouldn't I?" he said bitterly. "Obviously you don't want to help me, so there really is no reason for me to be here."

"Listen," I told him. "I'm sorry I acted like I don't want to help you. I do. I just don't want to get in over my head. Besides, detective work isn't my specialty."

"I figured I would perform most of the 'detective work,'" he replied. "You just have to help me with it because, well…" He looked down at himself sheepishly. "Being alive has its advantages."

I smiled a little. "Alright. The least I can do is respect a dead man's wishes. I'll help you."

He returned the smile, albeit it was a weak one. "Thank you, Peter. I knew you'd come through."

"Now, would you like me to get the police description for you?"

"That would help," he replied. "I'll see what information I can obtain, and then I'll get back to you in a few days."

"Sounds good, Doctor Octavius."

He frowned. "Please, call me Otto. Formalities are not necessary any longer."

"Sure, as long as _you_ stop calling me Parker all of the time. It's annoying."

Otto smiled. "Alright, Peter. We've got a deal."

I shook his hand, which was quite a bizarre experience. It symbolized our agreement, our pact to find the person who had nearly killed Mark. I supposed it was also an agreement to put the past behind us, to work together as friends once more.

Obviously, Otto cared about Mark very much. I had never seen him be so devoted to protecting a person; well, except for Rosie, of course. And I know that when she died, he lost a lot more than just his wife. Perhaps he didn't want to lose what was meaningful to him again; this time a young man who wasn't even out of high school.

The way the world works never cease to amaze me. And when you've been fighting crime outside of the law for twelve years, trust me; there isn't a lot that surprises you.

"I'll be watching you, Peter," he said, half-joking, half-serious. With a little smile and a wave of his hand, he was gone.

I laid back on my bed, but try as I may, I couldn't go back to sleep.

I had a lot to do tomorrow.

**Author's Note: Hmmm… well, that was interesting to write. I'm telling you, these characters have come alive all on their own. It's like they're telling me what to write. I suppose you could call Otto, Mark and Peter my muses. :) Especially Otto. He needs his story told. I'm more than happy to spin their story; for myself, the characters, and for you, the reader. I hope you like it so far…! Stay tuned for more—it's hardly over yet!**


	10. A Slow Recovery

**The Haunting of Pier 56**

**Chapter 10—A Slow Recovery**

**Author's Note: Wow... Chapter 10! It's amazing how much I've put into this story... The following chapter is from Mark's point-of-view, but it may be a little different than what you're expecting.**

**Now, I KNOW that there are people that read this. So please take just a minute to review! Even if you don't like it. You have no idea how much a little review helps... In the meantime, enjoy the following chapter!**

When I opened my eyes, I immediately closed them. Everything hurt terribly; it was too much for me right now to take in my surroundings.

I was obviously in the hospital—as I began to remember what had happened, anxiety began to worm its way into my brain. My mother must be worried sick about me! …And Otto.

Otto… I wonder if Otto even knew about it. About what happened? I didn't know. I didn't know anything.

I couldn't think. It hurt too much to even think.

I closed my eyes and regretted it, my mind shutting down as I fell into darkness…

The next time I opened my eyes, a face was in front of my blurred vision. "Mark! Oh, Mark!"

My mother hugged me.

"Ouch," I managed to mumble. That had hurt. Everything still hurt. The pain was only a little less than before; still excruciating to the point of insanity.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, dear!" she exclaimed. She brushed some hair off my face. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," I managed to blurt out in a whisper. My vision was kind of blurry; my chest, legs, and head hurt something terribly. Maybe I needed more pain killers.

"Oh, honey…" Mom touched my forehead. "We'll find the person who did this. I promise."

I nodded my head incoherently, closing my eyes. For some reason, I was really tired again. So tired…

I hear mumbling, the string of incoherent words growing louder as I became more awake. I felt something cold brush against my forehead. A chilly breeze sweeps through the room, and even though I'm not quite… here… I think I know who it is.

I try to sit up. Bad idea. I cried out as my body screamed in protest. The cold breeze came back, hovering next to me as though it was a sentinel. I fluttered my eyes and saw the ghost.

"O-Otto?"

"Yes, Mark," the voice said calmly. "I'm here."

How did Otto find out? I wondered dimly. But… there was a more important question to ask the ghost. He would know the answer to this question.

"Otto…"

"What is it, Mark?" the voice asked, concern showing through.

I opened my eyes again and looked at the ghost. Really looked at him. Or through him, that is. Maybe it was because my vision was blurred, but he seemed faded somehow. Other than that, though, the ghost looked the same as ever in physical appearance.

I tried to clear my throat before asking the question I knew he knew the answer to. "Otto… what's it like to die?"

The ghost turned away. "Oh, God, Mark. Please don't ask me that," he replied, his voice cracking. "You're not going to die."

I felt like I was going to die. I knew it was a possibility, a pretty high possibility. Otto would know what it was like; he had died. He hadn't described his death in detail, but I knew it had been very painful.

Like mine was going to be if I did die, which seemed almost probable.

I closed my eyes to a swirl of color. I felt very dizzy and the blackness greeted me again as an escape from the never ending pain…

The next few times I woke up I can't really remember much of it. Just my mother; my aunt Jemima was there once, I remember. But it's all a blur. My minutes of wakefulness are mingled; blurred with my memories.

I saw long forgotten memories of my father, of Otto; of both of them, and it confused me. Finally, I remembered what my mother had suppressed for years. I had known Otto before he died...

"_This is Otto," my father said, pointing to the rather friendly looking man wearing a long winter overcoat. "He's a good friend of mine."_

_Otto kneeled next to me and shook my hand. "And what is your name, young man?" he asked me politely._

"_I'm Mark," I said proudly. "What do you do for a living?" I blurted out._

_My daddy's friend seemed surprised. He pointed to himself. "Me?"_

_I nodded. "Uh-huh." _

_He smiled. "I'm a scientist, Mark. Through science, we make the world a better place."_

_I was content with that explanation and nodded happily. "Cool!"_

_Otto stood up. "I'm going to go talk with your father now, okay, Mark? I'll be at dinner, so I'll see you soon." He left the room._

_Going towards the stairwell, I heard Daddy and Otto talking. _

"_He'll grow up to be a fine young man, John. I just feel it."_

"_Really, Otto? You really think so?"_

"_I really think so," the other voice said confidently. "He's a curious boy. He'll make a great man someday, John."_

_Their voices faded away after that, and I walked up the stairs to my room…_

_My father sat at the kitchen table, head in his hands. I was eight years old. I approached him. He seemed to be crying, his sobs making an actual sound. "Dad!" I gasped. "What's wrong?"_

_He lifted his head, and sure enough, there were tears on his face. He shook his head. "Nothing, son. Nothing that need concern you."_

_My mother came into the room at that moment. She looked… almost smug. "I told you, John. He was bound to do something like that eventually."_

"_Shut up, Nancy," my father snarled angrily._

_I was extremely confused. "What's going on, Dad?" I demanded to know._

_My father sighed. "You're going to find out at school anyway." He motioned to the newspaper sitting on the table. "You remember our family friend, Otto, don't you, son?"_

"_Yeah, I do, but…"_

_My father shook his head and took the paper in his hands. "Otto had a demonstration last night. It went horribly wrong somehow. I don't know the details, but his wife is dead." My father paused, taking a deep breath. "My guess is to what happened next is as good as anybody's. But they... they're calling him a monster now. A... a freak." He put his head in his hands._

_I picked up the paper. "FORMER SCIENTIST ESCAPES FROM HOSPITAL, KILLING TEN" the headline screamed. Underneath the headline was a photograph of my father's friend, a maniacal determination in his eyes. But the strangest part about the picture was the metal looking... things hovering around him. I shuddered. "What are those?" I said, pointing to the picture._

_My father frowned. "I'll tell you later, son," he said, his voice cracking. "I... I need to be alone." With that, he walked out of the room. A few seconds later, I heard a door slam. _

_I stared at the photograph solemnly, not completely understanding what was going on but knowing it was bad. What had happened to him?_

"Come on, now. Wake up, son…" Something cold was shaking my shoulder.

'Son'… There had only been one person that had called me that to my memory. I fluttered my eyes, hoping against hope that it was who it was.

"Dad?"

I opened my eyes and found myself in the same white room again. No one was there. But… someone had said something… I had been sure of it…

"Dad?" I asked again, hoping that at least someone was here.

"Mark… I'm not your father. As much as I'd like to be…" the voice cracked, and a shimmery see-through substance appeared in front of me. It was barely visible.

"O-tto?"

The translucent figure nodded. "Yes. Mark…" The figure shook its head, his eyes looking distant and sad. "I think I'm going to leave now…"

"No…!" I said, a little more loudly than I should have. I started coughing hard. After it was over, I said, more softly, "Please stay, Otto. At least for a little bit."

The spirit sat down at the foot of my bed. He didn't say anything for a while, and my eyes drooped…

I woke up again, and the ghost was still sitting on my bed. He was staring out the darkened window silently. "Otto?"

The ghost looked up and turned to me. "Mark," he said mournfully. "I was wondering when you would wake up." He paused. "How are you? Are you feeling any better?"

"A little," I admitted. "How long have I been sleeping?"

The ghost sighed softly, shrugging. "I don't know. A few hours, at least." He turned away from me. "I stopped measuring time years ago."

I struggled to sit up in my bed, wincing from the stabbing pain in my chest. With a rapid movement, the ghost moved forward and held out a translucent hand as if to stop me. "No… Don't do that, Mark. You need your rest."

Taking Otto's advice, I laid back down.

"Mark…"

"Yeah, Otto?"

He turned back to me then, and on his translucent countenance I saw a twisted face of anger and sadness. "Who did this?" he demanded. "Who did this to you?"

I shook my head. "I don't… I don't know, Otto." I tried to remember… but, nothing. "My memories are kind of clouded at the moment..."

"That's alright, Mark. Just, if you remember, I want to know."

"Alright," I said, surprisingly more alert now than I had been since the accident. Granted, the pain was still there (and it would be for a long time) but I felt more awake; less delirious and restless than before. I felt at least a little hope despite the fact that everything still hurt like hell.

Otto went over to my bedside. He took my hand, and put it in his barely visible one. "Hang in there, Mark."

I nodded. "I will, Otto. Thank you."

"Whatever you do, Mark, don't give up on yourself. Just... Never give up on yourself." With that, he disappeared from my line of vision, and I sighed, wide awake for the first time in… Well, I'm not even sure when. I just knew that I was feeling… A little better.

Suddenly, my mother breezed into the room. "Mark?" she asked, looking as concerned as ever.

I nodded my head, trying to speak but my tongue not wanting to cooperate. "Hi….. Mom."

Mom sat down next to me in a chair. She shivered. "Why is it so cold in here? Did one of the nurses leave the window open on you?"

I smiled a little, knowing what my mother would never know. "I have no idea."


	11. Persuasion of a Troubled Soul

**The Haunting of Pier 56**

**Chapter 11—Persuasion of a Troubled Soul**

I sat in front of my laptop and groaned. Out of all the jobs that J. Jonah Jameson could allow me to do, he just _had_ to make me do this.

I hate Photoshop.

Wanna know why? Because it makes people like _me_ look bad. I'm using technology to make my image as Spider-Man be degraded. It's absolutely ridiculous.

But then again, I _had_ been working for JJJ for nearly twelve years now, and he paid me much more generously than he had in years past. Perhaps it was my experience, or the fact that I had offered help during that rough patch where the Bugle nearly went under. But thanks to Robbie Robertson, Ben Urich, and several other writers and editors, _The Daily Bugle_ has flourished and is now one of the city's top newspapers.

Unfortunately, that doesn't mean that J. Jonah Jameson doesn't print trash about me and other superheroes and villains out there occasionally. Thankfully, he doesn't print as many scathing editorials since that one time when the Avengers and a couple of villains set him straight, but he still likes photos ever so often by me. And then he usually makes me manipulate them using Photoshop.

Well, the photo wasn't going to fix itself, so I sighed and got to work.

My thoughts were scattered by a single spoken word.

"Peter?"

"Huh?" I blurted out, startled.

I heard the distinct sound of a throat being cleared. "Ahem. Is this a bad time? If so, I apologize."

I shook my head, then looked around for the ghost that I knew was in the room. "Nope, this isn't a bad time. I was just working on some things that can _very _easily be put off..."

I heard a sigh. "Well, that's good. I hate to impose, you know?"

I shook my head again. "You're not." I whipped my head around, still not seeing him. "It bothers me that I can't see you, though."

"Oh..." the voice said, surprised. "I _have _been forgetting lately. Too easy to forget."

The next time I flicked my eyes around the room, I saw something in the corner. I got up and walked towards it. Yup, that was Otto, alright... But he was barely visible. "I... I can't see you that well, Otto."

The apparition shrugged, and from what I could see of his countenance, he looked absolutely miserable. "It doesn't matter. I can't make myself any more visible than this."

I was taken aback. "But... why?"

He shook his head, hands in trench coat pockets. "I don't know. I believe, perhaps, I am fading away."

"I still don't get it. Why would you be fading away?"

The ghost walked forward, into the light that shone from my desk. I could see him better now, but what I saw made me, well, sad. He looked so down, so low, that I was surprised he hadn't faded completely already. The light from the desk lamp shone right through him."Peter," Otto said solemnly. He turned, looking out the window pane upon which rain lashed violently. He began speaking. "Mark is not getting better, Peter. His condition is worsening, and it will be only a matter of time before he dies." The ghost ran a hand down the window pane. Then he looked up at me, his eyes as empty as glass bottles. "This world is too cruel for me to bear very much longer."

He walked away from the window and glanced at MJ's bookshelf. He continued talking, not really facing me. "My soul is fading away. I can feel it. I think I've given up. When Mark dies, I believe I shall cease to exist." He ran a finger along the spines of the books on Mary Jane's shelf. "Perhaps it will be a relief. All I desire is peace, Peter. Maybe I'll finally get that at last."

I ran my hand through my hair. "Can we not talk about this, Otto?" His words; morbid though they were, they kind of rang a little truth. And I didn't like that at all.

The ghost said nothing in reply, peering at the titles of the books and muttering. Something caught his eye and he nimbly pulled the book out of the shelf and opened it.

"What book is that?" I asked.

Otto said nothing for a minute, reading whatever book he had chosen. Then he looked up. "T.S. Eliot, Peter." He paused. "I didn't know you read poetry."

"I don't. That's MJ's bookshelf."

"Oh." Otto fell silent, reading the book. "My wife..." he finally whispered. "Rosie loved T.S. Eliot. This was one of her favorites." He cleared his throat and began to read the poem out loud. "Let us go then, you and I,/When the evening is spread out against the sky/Like a patient etherised upon a table;/Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,/the muttering retreats/Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels/And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells..." He flipped a couple of pages. "That poem never meant anything to me. I never quite understood it. But now..." Otto began to read again. "We have lingered in the chambers of the sea/By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown/Till human voices wake us, and we drown." He snapped the book shut. "After all those years, I finally understand. I understand why Rosie loved it so much..." He trailed off. "I miss her, even now. I'll never stop missing her... Her voice... If I could only hear her voice. Just one more time." Otto's voice cracked as his hands shook with emotion. His hands slipped and he dropped the book on the floor, where it made a violent slamming sound.

I moved to pick it up, but he already had it. Otto picked up the book and placed it carefully in the bookshelf, saying nothing at all.

I didn't really have anything to say either that would effectively comfort him. I felt terrible for him. He was much older than I was, and yet he was so... so lost. "I'm... I'm sorry, Otto."

He turned his head. "Thank you, Peter. Your sincerety gives me hope for a brighter world." The ghost glanced at the floor. "You've hardly changed at all these past years..."

I opened my mouth to speak, but then the door opened and my wife walked in. "Peter!" she exclaimed, hugging me. "You didn't tell me you had a guest over!"

I hugged her quickly before nervously pulling back. "Uhm, I don't have a guest over."

"But I heard voices, Peter."

"I—I was talking to myself, MJ. I'm really, uh, frustrated with work."

MJ looked around, confused. "But, I could have _sworn _I heard another voice in here!"

"You must have been imagining it. There's no one here," I said, desperately trying to save myself from a predicament I wouldn't easily get out of.

"Peter, you're lying," my wife said angrily. "I'm not imagining things. I _heard_ someone's voice. A man's voice. And it wasn't yours. Peter, I want you to explain what's going on. Who was in here?"

"I, uh, I—um..." I mumbled, not knowing quite how to explain it.

"_I _was. I was in here."

We both whipped our heads to see Otto standing to the side, hands in trench coat pockets, staring at both my wife and I mournfully.

Mary Jane opened her mouth to scream, but Otto held up a hand. "Don't be afraid. Screaming and running away isn't necessary."

MJ's face turned as pale as fresh milk. "Who—no, _what_ are you?"

The ghost frowned. "You don't remember who I am? Well, I certainly remember _you_." He bowed slightly. "Mary Jane Watson. No, Mary Jane Parker, is it now? You look as lovely as ever."

My wife's eyes widened and she held her hand to her mouth as I think she realized who exactly the ghost was. "You're, you're, you're..."

The ghost smiled a little. "Now you remember." He pulled out his hand for Mary Jane to shake. "Even so, let me re-introduce myself. Dr. Otto Octavius. Pleasure that we can meet on... better terms than our last, er, meeting."

Mary Jane backed away from him nervously, blatantly ignoring his hand. "But, I... I don't get it. Peter told me that you might be alive, but I wasn't expecting—"

"Expecting this?" Otto asked. He looked through his hands bemusedly. "Mrs. Parker, I wasn't expecting this to happen either."

My wife continued stuttering. "So you aren't really alive. You're, uh, uhm..."

"Yes, I'm dead. Do we all have that clarified, or do I have to prove it to you?" he asked, annoyance showing through in his voice.

"No, you don't have to show me," she replied hastily.

None of us spoke for a moment. Mary Jane walked over to the window and began biting her nails, glancing worriedly at me and suspiciously at Otto. Finally, she turned to the ghost, who gave her his full attention, even straightening his coat a little.

"I have a question for you."

"Yes? What is it?"

"What exactly are you doing here?"

His eyes narrowed. "That's a loaded question. Specify, please."

She stammered. "I mean… uh, what are you doing in our apartment, talking to my husband?"

Otto glared at her, annoyed. "Why don't you ask your husband? It's personal business."

"The last time I checked, "personal business" did _not_ involve a… a… ghost invading someone's home just to talk to them. What the hell is going on here?" she demanded huffily.

I held out my hands in a stopping motion. "Mary Jane, calm down. Otto's just here to clear up some things with me. We're trying to figure out some things that are going on, okay?"

"What kind of things?" she demanded to know.

"Like I said before, that _really _isn't any of your business, Mrs. Parker," Otto replied. "Dutiful wife you may be, but you don't need to know _everything_. Besides, it's very complicated. Why don't you have Peter explain it to you later?"

"I will," she replied, glaring at the ghost. "However, the point still stands that you don't really belong here. You may have been a good man once, and you did do good in the end when it came down to it." She paused, taking a breath. "But I still remember the things you did for your own self interest. And they weren't good things. Especially the things you did to Peter and me."

Otto rubbed his hand on his forehead, head bowed. He looked up at Mary Jane after a minute, his face a mixture of anger and sadness. "Don't you think I _remember_ the things I did? Don't you think I regret them?" He got right into my wife's face. "I'm _sorry_, alright? What's done is done. It's been ten years, woman. I feel guilty enough without you putting more blame on me."

Mary Jane shrank away from the ghost, fear shining in her eyes. "I... I... It's hard to forget, you know? I thought at that time... you were going to kill me. Or even rape me..."

Otto shook his head in disappointment. "But it was so long ago... All that I wish is to be forgiven..." When MJ didn't answer, he didn't bother to look up. "Ah, forget it. None of this matters." With that, he dissappeared without a sound.

"Otto!" I shouted. But he was already gone.

I glared at my wife. "Why did you do that?" I demanded.

"Do what?" MJ retorted.

"You made him leave. He's really sensitive now."

To my disgust, my wife chuckled a little. "Of course, why wouldn't he be? He's dead."

I narrowed my eyes. "I don't understand, MJ. When you read the letter, you _wanted_ me to meet with Otto. Now that you've met him, you insulted and degraded him. What the hell is wrong with you?"

My wife gave me an equally nasty glare. "I thought he'd have changed. And looking at him again reminded me of when..." she shuddered, and I knew she was remembering when Otto had kidnapped her and taken her to his hideout in the docks. "And I can't believe that he's—well, er.. dead. That changes things."

I said, finishing the sentence for her. "But can't you see? He _has_ changed. He doesn't mean anybody any harm. And how does Otto being dead change things?"

"Yeah, he says that, and you believe him," Mary Jane replied defensively, raising her voice. "But I still don't trust him. He did a lot of bad things, and who's to say he has changed? Even if he's dead, he can still have malicious intent!" she shouted, deliberately avoiding my last question.

I sighed, quickly getting irritated by this pointless conversation. "I'm not going to argue with you." I went back into our bedroom and slipped on my coat before walking out the door, making sure to slam it behind me.

…

I walked aimlessly, not really knowing where I was going. Not caring. I needed to find Otto; but where would he possibly be?

Then it came to me like pieces of a puzzle fitting together; and I nearly slapped myself for my stupidity. Duh... Of course! Where else would he be; where else would he go? I stepped on the curb and hailed a taxi, which took me most of the way there. The rest of the way I walked.

Of course, the dock building itself was long gone, but there were skeletons of other abandoned industrial buildings around the area. I stood on the dock, gazing out to where the ghost of the now destroyed Pier 56 had been.

What I was hoping, of course, was that the ghost of the man who had died in this place was here as well. But sadly, I didn't see Otto anywhere. I continued to stare out on the water, the wind stinging my face. And I thought about the man who had been my idol, my enemy, and ultimately had been fogotten. It hadn't been long before I had forgotten about Doctor Octavius and had moved on with my life.

Until now; until he had returned, begging me for help. Help that I was happy to give him. After all, he had nothing. And Otto... he seemed so lost. Lost along the way; lost past death. Not knowing where to go. Obviously, his life was over, but his story wasn't. His soul wasn't ready to leave. I understood, and I wanted to help him with this.

But now... Mary Jane had agitated him to the point where he had left. Where to, I didn't know. I thought he would have been here, but I didn't see him. So he must be gone. Gone... I put my head in my hands.

And what about the kid? The kid who had gotten run over by the truck? Otto was right, of course. Everyone kind of knew that he probably wasn't going to pull through...

I rubbed one of my hands on my forehead, squatting with my elbows on my knees. Despite everything I had done as Spider-Man, I hadn't been able to save Doctor Octavius. And I wouldn't be able to save Mark Rhodes either, let alone find the person who ran him over. _It's hopeless,_ I thought._ Spider-Man can't save everyone. I can't save them. _

I ran a hand through my hair and looked out on the East River again. It frustrated me to no end that I couldn't do anything about this. Spider-Man was supposed to _help _people, to _save_ them. And the fact that I was unable to do anything about this disheartened me. Otto had been a good man; so was Mark Rhodes. And there was no possible way that I could assist or even comfort either of them...

"You looking for someone, or are you just standing out here for your own benefit?"

I turned around, startled. But I said nothing to the wispy figure standing beside looked out over the water sadly, then turned and glanced at me. "I'm surprised you knew where to find me," he noted.

"Well, since you died here, I figured..." I trailed off.

"Of course. You always were rather smart, Peter."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"I suppose."

"What's it like to die, exactly? I take it your death was painful, right?"

"No, burning and drowning simultaneously isn't painful at all!" he spat sarcastically. "Yes, it was painful. And dying isn't pleasant. Let's just go with that."

"Alright. I'm sorry I asked you that. Kind of rude of me."

He shook his head. "No apology necessary. It's perfectly fine to want to know."

"Yeah..."

It was quiet for quite some time. Then the ghost, staring straight ahead, began to speak. "Now do you see, Peter? Now do you see why it doesn't matter? My existence... means nothing."

"No, it doesn't, Otto!" I said forcefully. "Let's face it; Mark is probably going to die, right?"

He nodded.

"So if he dies, we're just going to give up? Let the person that killed him run free? Just forget about Mark the way everyone forgot about you?"

"I don't see any meaning in existing any longer, Peter," he replied flatly. "There is no point in trying to find Mark's attacker—this is a city of nine _million _people!" He sighed. "There just isn't any point in trying," he repeated. "I give up."

"No," I pleaded. "Don't give up. Mark _needs_ you. And what if he recovers? He'll certainly ask about you... Besides, this is your last chance, Doctor Octavius. Your last chance to be remembered."

"Remembered for what?" Otto asked resentfully. "Remembered for being a monster?"

"Remembered for being a good man; a person who unknowingly walked along the wrong path without realizing it. A man who never meant any harm to anyone." I held out my hand. "Otto, please," I implored. "Help me out; help me find Mark's attacker. Then maybe you'll find what you're looking for."

The ghost was silent for a long time. Then he cleared his throat and said, "Peter; perhaps you're right. You were right about the reactor; you were right the day I died. I think you are right now as well." Otto turned, taking a couple steps towards me. "Alright. Let's work together; two heads are better than one."

I nodded. "I'm happy you've came to your senses. Did you find the police records?"

"No; I didn't bother yet. Would you like me to?"

"Yeah. Find whatever you can about it. There should be an accident report in police files somewhere."

Otto nodded curtly and rubbed his gloved hands together. "I'll get right to it. And Peter?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you." I looked at him, and there was a bit of a smile on those faded lips. His head was bowed, yet there was hope in the wispy figure that I saw. "You've helped me realize something."

"Helped you realize what?" I asked.

"That there will always be hope. No matter how merciless and uncaring this world may seem." He nodded again. "I will be seeing you soon, rest assured. Your _wife_," he said the last two words resentfully, "will get over it, I'm sure. Have a nice day, Peter Parker." With that, the ghost disappeared gradually, as though his soul was simply smoke blowing away into the wind.

I set my hands in my pockets and headed home with a little more peace in my heart, knowing that, for now, things were going to be alright.

**Author's Note: The poem excerpt in this chapter is "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," by none other than T.S. Eliot. This poem is not mine, it is T.S. Eliot's work. Please do review, and keep an eye out for further chapters in the near future. Thanks!**


	12. Investigations

**The Haunting of Pier 56**

**Chapter 12—Investigations**

**Author's Note: For those of you that read this, yes, I do realize that this chapter was a very long time coming. College has been keeping me busy, but since I lack a job for the summer, you should see more chapters of this story (and "An Interesting Encounter", my Star Wars and Star Trek crossover, for those of you that read that) coming soon!**

I looked around the deserted hallway carefully, listening for any voices or shuffling papers before I slipped in through the wall, finding myself where I wanted to be.

This was the empty office of one of the many police detectives in Manhattan—specifically, the police detective that was _supposed _to be working on Mark Rhode's case. We would see how hard this person was actually working on Mark's case—according to Peter, he hadn't really gotten any word from this man when he had questioned him about Mark's case files (posing as Mark's concerned uncle). Of course, Peter couldn't do much "investigating" at this point—sure, he knew the kid; had taught him in some of his classes—but he really had no position to look into anything... The only person that could truthfully do that was Nancy, Mark's mother. And from what I had seen, she was way too much of a wreck to do anything at this point other than go to the hospital to visit the kid.

Anyhow, I wasn't just going to float around here—this was the only time I really had to get started on this "investigation." I sat without a qualm at the comfortable-looking chair and focused my attention at the rather sleek looking desktop in one corner of the room. Technology had apparently made significant leaps and bounds since my death, even if everything else hadn't.

I booted up the computer, and of course the first thing I saw on the screen was an inquiry. _Computer encrypted_, it informed me._ Password?_

Thankfully, I was prepared for this. I had procured the password from the police detective himself—watching over his shoulder while he worked as his computer. I easily typed in the password, and the computer let me in. Accessing the files would not be this easy, but I had hopefully gleaned enough from the detective to guess the passcode to the police records and files on recent cases.

Turns out, I shouldn't have been so worried. Mark's files in particular weren't even encrypted—they were actually on the desktop— seemed like a pretty good bet, if you asked me. I clicked on it, and sure enough, Mark's police report and continuing case file came up—it was only a few pages, as most police reports are, but I couldn't memorize it all at once. I scanned the pages and came to the conclusion that I would have to print it. Of course, printers were obviously a must have for every office now, as there was one right next to the desktop.

The printer was also lightning fast—before I knew it, all of the pages were printed out. I was ready to get out of here. Now to discreetly log out of the computer and...

Just then, the police detective himself, O'Connor, walked in. If I had a beating heart, I swear it would have stopped. At least by then the computer was turned off, so if the man had looked, he wouldn't have noticed that I had just been using it. I didn't move as the detective walked in, grabbed a few things (including what looked like house keys) out of the desk, and left wordlessly. As soon as he left, I gave a sigh and thanked my lucky stars he hadn't discovered the pages still in the printer tray. I took the police report and made my way out of there. Mission accomplished.

...

Once back to the docks and in the shabby little shack I sometimes occupied, I sat down and examined the police report carefully. It was like any police or accident report I had seen; with names, date and time of the incident, and some other information that I really did not deem worthy of my full attention. However, as I scanned the report, I saw two names that I would need—the name of the person who initially called 911, and a person who, with keen eyes, reported what she thought was the license plate of the truck that had run Mark over. The name of the license plate, LYX12, was on the report, as well as the addresses of the two witnesses who had been interviewed about the incident. The report also stated that they had not found the truck yet, though the police had discovered that the license plate had belonged to a 2005 Ford F150 that had been due for an inspection nearly half a year ago. I took note of this. The perpetrator could be more dangerous than I had initially thought. If he was driving a vehicle with fake license plates as well as ran over a kid, this man (or woman, though that thought barely crossed my mind) could have much more up his sleeve.

I set the papers down on the crate and stood up, looking out the dusty, smashed glass of the little building. There wasn't much more that I could do, now that I had procured the "top secret" police report and files on the accident. I could only relay this information back to Peter, giving him the report and discussing what could be done with the information I had gleaned. I felt as helpless and as alone as ever.

I watched a spider spin its intricate and dusty web in the corner and thought about how important that "pesky Spider-Man" had been once upon a time. It all seemed so long ago. I looked at all of the dust in the room and dully realized that this was all I had become. A dusty old relic. I had been under forty when I had died, a good chunk of my life ahead of me still yet.

I felt so much older.

I decided to stop thinking for now. It wasn't going to help matters. I picked up the police report, dusting it off, and slipped it in a trenchcoat pocket. I remembered vaguely how useful those pockets had been, when I had been working on the second fusion reactor, and how they were also useful for hiding stolen goods...

I snapped out of my broken-hearted memory and made my way to a certain home in Queens...

…

Of course, I was wary of coming here again. The last time I had made a visit to Peter Parker's home, his distrusting and beautiful wife had practically drove me off in tears. She hadn't changed that at all since I had last met her, Mary Jane Watson—physically as gorgeous as before and fiesty as ever. When I had kidnapped the woman, she had put up quite the fight—so much that I had to threaten to kill her at least three times before she would shut her trap.

Thinking back on that, I can see why she still held a grudge. But I tried so hard to put it all behind me, put back all of the destruction I caused to the back of my mind, that it had frustrated me to no end at the time. I came to the conclusion that if I ran into her again whilst in Peter's apartment, I would be as polite as I had been previously. Otherwise, I would steer clear of her to prevent any trouble.

So this was on my mind as I glided through the front door of the Parker's home. It was the same as it had been on my last visit—mostly clean, the furniture in the same places as before. I went into the living room to find both Peter and Mary Jane sitting on the love seat, talking in worried tones. So much for not running into the woman. However, if I was careful, I could still avoid her. I still was invisible, after all. I walked around the two, so I was standing behind the couch. Extending an arm, I touched Peter's shoulder, just to make him jump a little.

And jump he did. A little too much for one of the most powerful superheroes this side of the northeast. "Gah!" he shouted.

Mary Jane looked at him quizzically. "What's wrong, Peter?" she asked, hands on her stomach. I had almost forgotten, the beautiful young woman was nearly eight months pregnant.

Peter stammered and stuttered, and for a split second I remembered the geeky, enthusiastic young man not even out of college, his hand clammy with nerves as I shook it... And then the memory was gone, replaced by the present Peter's voice saying, "Uhn, MJ, I don't feel good. Stomachache." And before his wife could protest, he disappeared into another room and shut the door.

I did not even hesitate to follow him into the room, which I realized afterwards was a guest bedroom, as the furniture in here was slightly dusty. I made myself visible, and Peter groaned. "Not meaning to complain, Otto, but out of all the times you decide on your own terms to 'show up'..." he grumbled a bit sardonically.

"Well, sorry to interrupt your important conversation," I snapped. "Would you like me to return at your convenience, then?"

Peter coughed a little. "No, it's fine, Otto. It's not a completely bad time, but it would have been nice if you didn't have to startle me like that."

"I am sorry, Peter." I saw concern in his eyes, and decided to pry a little before I delivered my news. "What's wrong?"

Peter narrowed his eyes. "Nothing that concerns you, Otto."

"No, Peter. I'd like to know. You don't look very happy about something."

He pursed his lips. "Mary Jane is laid off until six months after she has the baby. My job doesn't make as much money as we are going to need to take care of it."

I frowned, wringing my hands. "I'm sorry to hear that, Peter. I wish I could do something about it."

Peter shrugged. "There's nothing you _can _do at the moment, Otto. Not about this." He paused. "Did you get any information about Mark and the accident?"

I took out a manila folder which I had written Mark's name on and waved it for emphasis. "Everything's right here. Take a look, if you like."

The part-time superhero took the folder from my hands and took out the accident report, scanning down the page with his eyes. Those green eyes widened as he saw something I had purposely ignored. "My—my goodness, Otto! _Curt Connors _made the 911 call?"

"Apparently," I said, trying to act innocent.

Peter finished reading the rest of the accident report in silence, setting it down on the bed when he was done, looking up at me with a confused glance.

"Is that sufficient information? I can't do much more than that, I'm afraid."

Peter smiled. "This is great, Otto. Here's what we'll do. I'll go interview the woman who reported the lisence plate, and you'll interview Curt Connors."

I was not expecting this. I had truly done all I could do. I couldn't go back and talk to Curt Connors again—not after the last encounter I had with him. I couldn't do it. Still taken aback, I pointed to myself. "Me? I couldn't possibly, Peter. He knows I'm dead, and the shock could kill him."

To my utter astonishment, Peter chuckled a little. "Nah, you won't shock Curt, Otto. Promise." He stared me dead straight in the eye. "You going to do it, Otto?"

Mark's agonized face kept swimming up to the top of my memories. He would not be forgotten—no. I would not allow him to die in vain.

But... I felt like I wasn't up for this job. Curt had been my best friend... We had been close buddies and college, much like my friendship with Jon, and still were friends until my accident, and in Curt's case, even afterwards. What happened after my accident with Curt made me shudder still. I wasn't ready to relive that and see another of my old friends again. Truly, it had been bad enough dredging old memories by finding out the identity of Mark's father, but...

"Otto? Hello?" Peter was waving a hand in front of my face. "Hey, are you okay?"

I shrugged, head down. "Peter... Please don't make me go talk to Curt. I don't want him to see me like this, and I don't think I can handle it..." I pleaded.

A look of pity crossed Peter Parker's features, the pity which angered me usually but today I was grateful for. "Alright," he said resignedly. "He'll talk to me easier anyway."

"Thank you. Is there anything else I can do?"

Peter shrugged. "You should visit Mark more often. I can't visit him really, since he doesn't know me that well. But I've heard he's slowly getting better."

"Alright. Thanks, Peter. Talk to you soon, and I wish the best of luck for you and Mary Jane until we meet again." Without waiting for a reply, I left.

…

Again, I was by the young man's bedside. True to what Peter said, he looked just a tiny bit better every time I saw him, and seeing what injuries he had suffered, it was an amazing recovery. At first, even I didn't know what he had sustained from the accident, but sneaky as I am, I overheard a nurse talking. She had said that Mark was suffering from chest trauma, a severe concussion, a broken leg, and a broken arm.

Of course, he would not be getting out of the hospital for a while yet, especially with this so far shaky recovery. But it was a start, and I was happy to see more color in the young man's cheeks every time I came to visit, even when he was sleeping or unconscious.

However, today he appeared to be wide awake and was absent-mindedly flicking through channels on the television that was available in his hospital room.

Somehow, he noticed my presence and looked up. "Otto?"

I nodded. "How are you feeling today, Mark?"

A weak smile formed on his lips. "Better. I'm not going to be running a marathon any time soon, but I'm okay for now, I think."

I allowed a small smile myself. "I'm really glad to hear that." I sat down on the bed, and the boy took the remote and shut off the television.

"I always hated watching TV anyway," he noted.

I wholeheartedly agreed.

He sat fuller up in bed, and gave me his whole attention. "Tell me a story, Otto."

Quite frankly, I was taken aback. "A story?"

"Sure! Tell me a story with my dad in it, please!"

A small ache arose in my heart at the thought of Jon Rhodes and the life I used to have, but I focused on some memories I had from college with Jon, and told them to Mark until one of those pesky nurses came in and forced me to leave.

However, I left the hospital feeling a little lighter. I was making progress with the investigation into Mark's accident, Mark was making progress in his recovery, and Peter was making further progress with the investigation.

_Progress_, I thought. Progress always had felt good to me, and that at least hadn't changed. Progress had always made me look forward towards what the next day had in store for me. In death, I rarely look forward to anything.

But now there was a new sunrise to look forward to. At least, for the time being. And it felt great.

**To Be Continued...**

…

**Author's Note: Reviews and comments are always encouraged and appreciated!**


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